


A Very Supernatural Christmas Prince

by otterystkisses



Series: A Very Supernatural Christmas Prince [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterystkisses/pseuds/otterystkisses
Summary: “Aldovia? That little nowhere country, still stuck in a monarchy?” Ruby asked Sam. “Why do we care?”Crowley, meanwhile, was nodding to himself. “We care, Ruby, because Prince Cas is...very handsome.” The edges of his mouth curled. “And unattached.”“Aw, you wanna be a pretty princess, Crowley?” Ruby snarked, tossing a paper clip at him. It bounced off the tip of his shoe, which was still propped on his desk.“If the tiara fits, I’m certainly not going to say no,” Crowley replied.--A Christmas Prince AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rae1112](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/gifts).



> -shows up 15 minutes late with an outdated reference and Starbucks-
> 
> Listen, if you're here you've either seen A Christmas Prince on Netflix or read all the funny tweets people wrote about it. You know what you're about, I know what I'm about, and we're all just here for a good time not a long time so get ready for a fluffy and endearing mess!
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a Christmas present for my ride-or-die rae1112. It has since turned into an epic journey mostly limited by the fact that I'm writing this and I don't know what I'm doing :') 
> 
> Many thanks to my fabulous beta readers Alex and Jen, without whom we'd all be lost in a SEA of excessive commas. 
> 
> I had vague ideas about scheduling goals for updates but I'm going to be honest with you and with myself and say, the goal is just To Get It All Done. I appreciate you reading this anyway and hope you enjoy!

_From: submissions@nybugle.com_  
To: samwinchester83@gmail.com  
Date: Dec. 18, 2017  
Subject: Thank You 

_Dear Mr. Winchester,_

_We thank you for your recent submission. However, we’ve decided to go in a different direction_

“Sam?”

_Shit._ Sam fumbled the mouse and quickly clicked over to a different tab on his browser- this one containing the draft of his current project- before turning to his interrupter, pasting an innocent expression on his face.

Ruby, fellow junior writer and six months Sam’s senior at Hell’s Kitchen _(Serving the Hottest Scoops Since 2010!)_ , leaned against his desk, tilting her head at him. Judging by her smirk, she had either killed a man or—Sam thought, more likely—seen right through his panicked attempt to hide the fact he wasn’t working on his “Which Ugly Christmas Sweater Are You?” quiz. 

“Working hard or hardly working?” she asked casually, sauntering past him to sit at her own desk, to the right of Sam.

“See, it’s those kinds of cliches that are keeping you from being promoted above junior,” interjected a gravelly British voice from behind them. 

“Stuff it, Crowley,” Ruby sniped back, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Sam swiveled his chair to face Crowley’s desk in time to see the man in question shrug expansively and kick his fashionable vegan leather loafers up on his desk. 

“Chin up, Samuel,” Crowley advised, lacing his fingers behind his head. “There’s plenty of other fish in this densely overpopulated, mostly sycophantic sea. Some publication, somewhere, will appreciate your surely riveting and novel political analysis on the apricot trade in the Mediterranean, or whatever new crusade you’ve picked up this week.”

“Don’t call me Samuel,” Sam immediately replied, a knee-jerk and (at this point) mostly useless reaction. He paused for Crowley’s theatrical sigh, and continued. “Besides, this time it was about organized crime in the Balkans.” He ignored the apricot comment. You try to make a sensational connection between pomegranates and the ruling political party ONE TIME, and absolutely no one in this damned office would let you forget it.

“What, Christmas memes and celebrity instagrams aren’t enough for you?” Ruby asked, clicking through her own emails. “How do you feel about...ooh, here’s a good one—Adam Milligan’s dog’s Twitter posted a Hanukkah meme and people are calling it an attack on Christmas. And cultural appropriation.” Ruby squinted closer at the outline sent by their editor, Azazel. “Portray the argument in a series of themed .gifs. How does that sound, Sam?”

“It sounds like I’m in student loan debt for nothing,” he replied, sighing and tabbing back to his own email, where the latest rejection—the one from the New York Bugle—stared at him mockingly. Eyes sticking on the phrase ‘different direction’, Sam deleted the message and looked at the several unread assignments from Azazel. 

A year ago, fresh from journalism school and thrust into an over-saturated job market, Sam had jumped at the first publication that had made him an offer. Even if it was at a place notorious for trendy quizzes and sanitized, surface-level coverage of #relatable issues, well, a job was a job. After all the late and sleepless nights, and after everything his older brother had sacrificed just so Sam could follow his dreams, his greatest fear had just been of letting Dean down.

Lucifer, the editor-in-chief of Hell’s Kitchen, had promised that Sam would have the opportunity to work on hard-hitting, investigative pieces related to hot button issues. So far he had done nothing but screenshot tweets and collect a massive library of .gifs. 

Sometimes Sam wondered if it would have been better to have just swallowed his pride and worked at the family business until he got his dream offer. 

Sam stifled another sigh and turned back to his Christmas sweater quiz. The one he was looking at now had a dancing elf, with “LET’S GET ELFED UP” spelled out in large letters on a scroll across the chest. There was a strand of real, working christmas lights knit into it. 

It was hideous.

Sam continued working, tuning out Ruby and Crowley’s harmless bickering. They could be difficult, but they were the closest thing Sam had to friends in the Hell’s Kitchen “meatspace”, a nickname lovingly bestowed upon the office by its beleaguered writer’s floor (mostly in honor of its high turnover rate).

“Sammy!” a voice rang out across the floor.

Sam, Ruby, and Crowley all glanced up. Because of the mostly open floor plan of the office, their rather enthusiastic editor-in-chief just had to yell out of his office door whenever he wanted someone. There were office phones sitting on every desk, which could have been used for the same purpose, but Sam was convinced Lucifer liked the power posturing.

Sure enough, at the far end of the office and up a short flight of stairs, Lucifer leaned against his own doorway, hands tucked casually in his pockets. Once he had Sam’s attention, he jerked his head towards his office, then turned back inside.

“Ooooh, _Sam_ -my,” Ruby hissed, taunting, under her breath. She made a kissy face as he stood, rolling his eyes. 

For whatever reason, Lucifer always preferred to call Sam into his office, even if it was something that could be communicated over email. It made Sam feel a little awkward to so clearly be some sort of favorite, especially when he wasn’t sure it was JUST because he showed promise as a writer; but if it meant he got to avoid thinking up multiple choice answers to “what’s your favorite Christmas cookie” then he would take it. 

“Hey, Lucifer,” Sam said, poking his head into the office. Situated in the corner of the building, with several wall-to-ceiling windows, it was easily the most beautiful part of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“Ah, Sam! Come in, sit down. Close the door,” he added, so Sam eased it shut with a soft click. He was positive Ruby and Crowley were unashamedly rubber-necking to peer through the windows that faced their desks. 

“So Sam, since you’re our little resident analyst, tell me: what do you know about Aldovia?” Lucifer asked, as Sam gingerly lowered himself into one of the aesthetically pleasing but supremely uncomfortable chairs opposite his boss. 

Sam shifted a little on the slick plastic of the torture device posing as a chair. “Uh, not much. It’s a small constitutional monarchy in the middle of Europe, not part of the European Union—oh, and their king died last year. Actually,” Sam paused, remembering, “almost exactly a year ago. It was Christmas.”

“That’s the only important part here,” Lucifer said, waving a hand. “Figurehead or not, the constitution says that if the king dies there’s an interregnum period of one year before the next king must be crowned. And the new king must be the closest male blood-relative of the previous king. That would be Crown Prince Castiel Milton.”

The name vaguely rang a bell. His eyes narrowed in thought. “He’s the one who…”

“Has fucked off to travel around the world for all these various charity causes, yes,” Lucifer interrupted smoothly, throwing down a few newspapers from a publication Sam had never heard of- The Aldovian Tablet. Headlines screamed up at him, saying “CROWN PRINCE ABANDONS COUNTRY”, “KING CHARLES DIES; COUNTRY IN MOURNING”, “DUCHESS MEG’S OSCARS DATE”.

Sam frowned and picked that one up.

“What’s this got to do with the prince?” he asked, scanning the copy.

“No, no, not that,” Lucifer said, leaning over his desk and into Sam’s space. “It’s down here.” 

Sam did his best not to immediately draw back as Lucifer tapped at a much smaller headline towards the bottom of the page. It said “PRINCE INVOLVED IN CHARITY PROJECT FOR FOREIGN ORPHANS”.

“I’m getting the feeling Aldovia doesn’t really care for their prince,” Sam said, putting the paper back on the desk and settling back in his torture chair. 

“You’d be right!” Lucifer said cheerily, dropping back into his own, much more comfortable chair and spinning it slightly, back and forth. “See, it’s that kind of instinct and attention to detail that makes you the perfect person to cover this story.”

“What story?” Sam asked slowly, trying not to get too excited. Lucifer, and even Azazel, did this sometimes: they’d dangle a juicy hook in front of him, only to have it turn out to be “put together the perfect gift guide for the anniversary of the October Revolution.”

“I want you,” Lucifer began grandly, stabbing a finger at Sam for emphasis. “To go to Aldovia and cover the upcoming coronation deadline. Will Prince Cas take the crown? Or will he abdicate in favor of pursuing his charitable pursuits? Etcetera, etcetera.”

Sam sat in shock, even forgetting for a moment how uncomfortable the chair was. A real story? It could be his big break—he could prove to Lucifer, and to his brother, and to everyone, that—

“Sam?” Lucifer interrupted, bringing Sam back to reality.

“I—yes! Yes, of course! I won’t let you down,” Sam said. “Wow. So, if the prince abdicates, who’s next in line? Isn’t there a queen now? If there’s a constitutional monarchy, do they have a parliament? Why couldn’t they—”

“Sam, Sammy, Sam. Hold on,” Lucifer said , standing again and holding out his hand.

Sam shut up. 

“I appreciate your enthusiasm. That’s why I want you to take this story. But, remember, keep it simple. Just cover the coronation and focus on the prince. Who he is as a person. If he’d be a good ruler. Get into family scandals. Our readers aren’t analyzing anything, Sam, they just want to know how hot the royal family is and if there are any skeletons in their closets.”

“I—” Sam hesitated. Should they really assume so little of their readers? 

“GIFs, Sam,” Lucifer intoned, as a reminder. He pronounced it ‘JIFs’. 

Sam bit back his protests.“Thank you, sir. I promise, I won’t let you down,” he said, standing and offering his hand to Lucifer, who grabbed it between both of his own. 

His boss smiled. “Please, Sam. How many times do I have to say? Call me Lucifer.”

Sam managed to choke out some sort of affirmative noise. Lucifer released him and sat back down, returning to his papers in clear dismissal.

“Just go down and talk to Alastair in Accounting for expenses and all that,” he said, shuffling things around on his desk. Sam nodded, already heading back to the floor.

“Oh, and Sam?”

Turning just as he’d been about to escape, he found Lucifer had looked up, pinning him with his strange unblinking stare and wide, unsettling grin.

“Make me proud,” he said. 

Sam gulped. “Will do,” he said weakly, finally fleeing. He spent the walk back to his desk trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling he always got in Lucifer’s presence.

“Weeeeell?” Crowley drawled as Sam rounded the corner, down to flexing his fingers to banish the residual heebie-jeebies. “How was your date, Samuel?”

“Creepy, as usual,” Sam said distantly, suddenly considering what, exactly, it would mean to leave the country over Christmas. 

He’d been so in shock over finally, _finally_ getting a story that it just hadn’t occurred to him: ever since his dad’s death, when Sam had still been in high school, he and his brother had spent every Christmas together. And even when their parents _had_ still been alive, they’d been so busy with the family business that it had felt like just Dean and Sam at Christmas anyway, for as far back as Sam could remember. With this story taking him abroad, this would be the first Christmas Sam had ever spent without Dean. 

He’d have to cancel his plane ticket back to Kansas. He’d have to call Dean. Sam bit his lip. 

“So?” Ruby wheedled, drawing Sam out of his spiralling guilt. “What did he want?”

“He gave me a story,” Sam said, unable to contain a little frisson of excitement. A _story_! “I’m going to Aldovia to cover the prince’s upcoming coronation.”

His statement wasn’t met with the sarcastic congratulations he’d expected.

“Aldovia? That little nowhere country, still stuck in a monarchy?” Ruby asked. “Why do we care?”

Crowley, meanwhile, was nodding to himself. “We care, Ruby, because Prince Cas is...very handsome.” The edges of his mouth curled. “And unattached.”

“Aw, you wanna be a pretty princess, Crowley?” Ruby snarked, tossing a paper clip at him. It bounced off the tip of his shoe, which was still propped on his desk. 

“If the tiara fits, I’m certainly not going to say no,” Crowley replied.

Sam tuned them out again, searching ‘crown prince castiel milton+charity’ on his computer.  
“Oh, hold on, go to images,” Ruby said suddenly, appearing over Sam’s shoulder. “I have to see for myself. Crowley has terrible taste.”

“I do not,” Crowley protested, coming around to peer over Sam’s other shoulder. “See, here, look at this one.” He put his hand over Sam’s on the mouse and clicked one of the first image results. 

It seemed to be some sort of royal portrait; the dark-haired, blue-eyed prince in a navy suit with cream-colored epaulettes and rows of buttons and braid and ribbons adorning his chest. His hair, rather than being tightly controlled, had a soft wave in its short cut. His eyes were large and turned down at the outer corners, and they were very, very blue. Piercing, even. 

Sam scrutinized his face. He looked...solemn. Not that there are many other options for a royal portrait. Solemn, but with a quiet air of something else. Poise? Grace? 

In any case, he was conventionally attractive for sure, so Sam could see what Crowley was talking about. But Sam found that strange hint of...otherness...in the prince’s stature more compelling. 

“Eh,” Ruby said in dismissal, clicking through a few other pictures. They scrolled across the screen in quick succession, only giving Sam glimpses: the prince in an all-white ensemble, barefoot on a beach somewhere; the prince in a tuxedo, escorting a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a slinky, curve-hugging gown; the prince, sunburned and scruffy, laughing and playing with a ragtag group of children, their limbs stick-skinny with malnutrition. It was the first picture Sam had seen of the prince smiling. They all seemed happy. 

Crowley sniffed and pulled away, heading back to his desk. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.” He tossed the sulky words in Ruby’s direction. 

Sam continued to think about the pictures as he wrapped up his work for the coming week, including making a trip down to the bowels of Accounting, where the notoriously stingy Alastair was visibly unhappy about Sam’s costly international plane tickets and overtime holiday pay. 

Snow had begun to sprinkle down by the time Sam left the office, adding its cheerful effect to the lights and holiday displays along the street. Sam, bundled in his coat and scarf, ignored it all and hurried through the flow of people to the subway, where it was just a few stops until he was home. 

He thought about the call he would have to make to Dean, explaining he wasn’t coming home for Christmas, the entire time on the train. On autopilot, he headed straight to his building and stamped the snow from his boots in the vestibule while mulling over word choice. He had moved on to imagining all the various ways the call could go while he shed his winter layers in a massive heap just inside his front door. By the time Sam had steeled himself enough to call, he had worked himself into a massive guilt trip. 

He glanced at the clock on his stove. It was 7:34 PM in New York, so 6:34 PM in Lawrence, Kansas, where Dean and Sam had been born and where Dean still lived, having taken over the family business: Mary’s, the old-fashioned diner that had been their parents’ lifelong dream. 

Formerly called the Roadhouse Diner, when Sam had been just a baby an electrical fire had killed his mother and nearly burned the place down. After rebuilding, his father had renamed the diner after his beloved wife and dedicated himself to maintaining her namesake, while maintaining himself through drink. Dean, four years older than Sam, had stepped in to play parent and brother, and when their father finally drank himself into his grave, Dean had formally taken over the restaurant as well. 

It was the dinner rush, Sam knew, but he really just wanted to get this over with—better to rip the bandaid off.

Pacing his tiny studio apartment, he distractedly pulled random things from the fridge and cupboards, listening to the ringing on the other end of the line. 

“Hey, Sammy! What’s up?”

He could hear a lot of noise on Dean’s end: voices, clinking dishes, the sizzle of food on a grill. He swallowed.

“Hey, Dean. You got a minute?”

“Sure, sure, just let me head into the back.” The noise faded until it disappeared. Dean must have shut himself into the diner’s small office. There was a noisy creak—Dean settling into the old leather chair behind the desk, a relic of their father’s. “So what’s wrong?”

Sam managed a laugh. “I didn’t say anything was wrong!”

“Yeah, but you always bitch at me for calling you Sammy. So, what’s up?”

Sam started slow, meandering over to his coffee table and pushing the magazines and papers around. “Well, I have news—today Lucifer gave me my very first big story to cover.”

“What, seriously? Finally! It’s about time those jerks gave you some recognition. I knew it’d happen eventually. What is it?” Dean sounded proud. 

Sam sighed. “Well, that’s the thing. I’m going to be covering the upcoming coronation of the next king of Aldovia. In Aldovia.”

“ _Where?_ ” Dean asked, laughter in his tone. “Aldovia? That’s gotta be a made up place.”

“It almost is,” Sam said, smiling despite himself. “It’s a tiny monarchy in the middle of Europe. And they’re due for a new king...at Christmas. So I’ll...be gone. For Christmas.” He paused. “I’m really sorry, Dean. I know we always do Christmas together, and I wasn’t even thinking about it when Lucifer gave me the assignment, and then I had already said yes, and—”

“Dude,” Dean interrupted, chair squeaking out a protest in the background. “Don’t worry! This is your first story. You’ve been waiting for this. You deserve it. Don’t worry about me,” he repeated, and Sam could hear the brash attitude Dean liked to adopt. “I’ll be fine. Probably eat myself into a coma, but I’ll be fine. Do they even celebrate Christmas in Aldorado?” 

“Aldovia,” Sam corrected, knowing Dean was half deliberately getting it wrong to deflect Serious Emotions and half genuinely not remembering. “Yeah, I think so. It’s like a complete transplant of England into what looks like a Swedish ski village.” His earlier research had turned up nothing but picturesque mountain landscapes and buildings that looked like they belonged in a children’s book about the North Pole. 

“Well, anyway. I’m proud of you, Sammy,” Dean said, voice gone deliberately light to mask the genuine emotion behind the statement. Although he rolled his eyes, Sam was touched, despite Dean’s lifelong “no chick flick moments” philosophy. 

“Don’t call me Sammy,” he said, meaning ‘thanks’.

On the other end, a voice called to Dean from a distance. To Sam, Dean said, “Hey, I gotta go. Talk to you later!”

“Later,” Sam said, and the line went dead.

Well, that had gone as well as expected. He still felt a little guilty about leaving Dean alone for Christmas, but he’d call him. Maybe he’d Skype and show him what Aldovia really looked like. Dean had never really traveled, at least not outside of the United States. Not that he had ever expressed much interest in it, but Sam figured at least it’d be an interesting Christmas present. 

\--

_From: rubym@hellskitchen.com_  
To: samw@hellskitchen.com  
Date: Dec. 19, 2017  
Subject: hate 

sam,  
i bet you’re gonna be super jealous of what i’m doing today: a fashion overview of His Royal Whateverness, your prince castiel. It’s super exciting to list all these boring suits!!! there’s a lot of cargo shorts!!!! and fuckign BIRKENSTOCKS kill me now

actually, the one good thing about it is how pissed crowley is that he’s not doing this assignment. he can’t make heart eyes at pictures of Crown Prince of Assholia or whatever all day. 

anyway, bet you wish you weren’t going on an all-expenses paid christmas vacation to what essentially amounts to a resort town. why the hell is this place its own country?!?! It barely even has cities aside from the capital!!! lucifer’s weird boner for you is bigger than the damn palace!!

have fun alpine skiing or whatever the 1% do there, and don’t die in a plane crash,  
ruby  


\--

Standing in line at his gate in JFK International Airport, Sam was at once amused and disturbed by Ruby’s choice of imagery. 

A few minutes later her impression of luxury had already been thrown out the window. His carry-on shoved into the extremely limited overhead space, and his legs crammed into a gap the size of a postage stamp, Sam could already feel his spine protest being curled into a seat not made to comfortably fit anyone larger than a child or very short adult. Then again, most people were short compared to Sam.

To distract himself, once the plane had left the runway and the seatbelt signs had been turned off, Sam retrieved his laptop and pulled up several articles on Aldovia and the royal family he had downloaded the previous night. (Because, if Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t going to spring for the Economy Plus seats, they certainly weren’t going to spring for $11 WiFi on the plane.)

Prince Castiel’s father, the late King Charles “Chuck” Milton, seemed to have been a beloved and benevolent leader before his untimely heart attack last Christmas. Queen Rebecca, his charming socialite wife, Prince Castiel, and young Princess Gabriella rounded out the Milton family, but spreading out wide from the primary trunk of the royal tree there was a tangled mess of dukes, duchesses, counts, ladies, and lords, all with some tenuous connection to the royal bloodline, and quite a few with their fingers in political pies, so to speak.

Everything was frustratingly vague, and Sam wondered if the people of Aldovia understood their own political situation any better than he did. 

The only thing that wasn’t vague was the media’s consistent and brutal criticism of the prince, whom they had branded a foreign sympathizer and flighty goody two-shoes. But even after wading through the sensationalism, there wasn’t much about the prince’s personal life. 

For all Sam knew, he really _was_ a giant asshole and was just using charity work to cover up for a massive personality deficit.

Eventually (and miraculously) exhaustion prevailed over the upset baby two rows away, Sam’s jittery neighbor who had downed as much alcohol as he could legally purchase, and Sam himself. He shut his laptop, reclined his seat the two inches he was allowed, and between one breath and the next he nodded off.

\--

Groggy, bleary-eyed, and barely aware of what day it was, Sam dragged his carry-on down the jet bridge and into the Aldovian airport. A giant banner greeted every disembarking passenger: “Welcome to Aldovia!” Festive garland and large red bows adorned the sign. 

Every step Sam took jarred his tortured spine, and it took extra effort to not walk like he was 90 years old. Each step was motivated by the knowledge that he was getting closer and closer to being able to get completely horizontal on a nice bed in his hotel. The daydream of getting to stretch out completely carried Sam all the way through the laughably casual customs check and currency exchange, out through the nice glass sliding doors at the entrance to the airport (which just went to show how small the airport was, that it only had one entrance), and into the line of people all waiting for the next available taxi. 

He noted the small (but probably large by Aldovian standards) crowd gathered by the entrance, carrying large cameras, microphones, and assorted recording equipment. They craned their necks in excitement, staring down every person who exited the airport, to the effect that each new person joining the taxi line seemed more disturbed than the last.

Sam caught snatches of conversation as he passed the strange welcoming committee: “Wasn’t he supposed to be here already?” “Where could he be?” and “Maybe he’s not coming back at all.” 

A smarter, or perhaps less jetlagged person would have put two and two together to realize that they were waiting for the prince—and Sam would come to this realization in approximately 24 hours, after an appropriate amount of sleep, a shower, and some food. 

In the moment, he was only thinking about how great it would be to close his eyes in a room with absolutely zero crying babies, so he was nearly knocked over when a man in sunglasses, a slouch beanie, and a horrendous beard came barreling past him and neatly stole Sam’s taxi out from underneath his nose.

“Wha—hey!” Sam protested, rudely yanked from his daydreaming. “That’s my taxi!”

“Sorry, I’m really sorry, but I have to go,” said the man, whose beard looked less intentional and more ‘shipwreck survivor on a deserted island’. His voice sounded like he had been gargling rocks. 

As the door slammed shut, Sam yelled, “Asshole!” 

The taxi drove off. Sam shook his head and the people behind him in line grumbled in commiseration, which he appreciated. Welcome to Aldovia, indeed. 

His taxi, when he finally got one, took him down what he assumed was the main thoroughfare, judging by the amount of Christmas decorations on all of the quaint little gingerbread-esque buildings. That much cheer just creeped him out. The town, and so the whole country, just didn’t seem real. No one could officially dictate this much consistent, widespread holiday cheer. 

His hotel fit in perfectly with the North Pole/Santa’s Workshop aesthetic of the town. Every employee sported a near-identical, ear-to-ear smile. Sam was reminded uncomfortably of the one time he and Dean had taken a trip to Disney World with his Uncle Bobby.

But he didn’t care too much, because as soon as he unlocked the door to his room, pushed the garland decoration off the bedside table and plugged in his phone with the European adapter he’d picked up before leaving, he was out. He barely remembered to toe his shoes off before slamming face down on the comforter and checking out of consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a press conference, a broken vase, and a serious case of mistaken identity.

_ From: luciferm@hellskitchen.com _

_ To: samw@hellskitchen.com _

_ Date: Dec. 19, 2017 _

_ Subject: just FYI _

Hey-o Sammy,

Forgot to mention! Last year the press corps ran into the issue of the Aldovian Royal Press Secretary being a hardass. You had to be pre-registered as a reporter, have these badges, the whole shebang. Since Hell’s Kitchen decided to go at the last minute I called you in yesterday while you were flying, and let me tell you, I almost had to sell someone else’s first born to get them to let you in. Bastards. Everything’s fine now, but just in case, here’s my personal number: (212) 555-0522. Call me if you need anything or run into any problems.

Keep me posted!

Lucifer

—

Sam startled awake the next morning to the telephone ringing on the bedside table. Even  _ that  _ managed to sound cheerful in some way, he thought darkly to himself as he snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?” he grumbled down the line, still not entirely sure what day or time it was.

“Hello, this is your wake up call,” a chipper voice on the other end replied.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Sam said, blunter than he’d usually be. He blamed it on the jet lag.

The voice had continued, barreling right over him.

“As a registered member of the press, we’re calling to let you know that you must pick up your official press badge from the royal representative in the lobby within the next 30 minutes. After that, all shuttle vans will be departing for the palace,” the voice said.

“I — what?” Sam said, suddenly much more awake.

“Please be sure to be on time as no further vans will be departing after 9:30 and visitors not arriving on an official shuttle will not be admitted to the palace for the press conference. That is all!"

There was a click and Sam was left holding a dead receiver. It had been a prerecorded message.

He frantically tossed aside the covers he had somehow found himself under and jabbed at the 'front desk’ button. While the phone rang, he scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester!” a different, yet still chipper, voice answered. “How may I help you?”

“The call I just got, about the vans,” Sam said, attempting to get out of bed without getting hopelessly tangled in the phone cord. “Is this — standard procedure?”

“Uh — to what are you referring?” Chipper asked, now with added hesitation. “The wake up call or the shuttle vans?”

“The vans,” Sam said, deciding to just take this morning one puzzle at a time. He tried to stretch the phone cord to his suitcase, which was lying on the ground at the foot of the bed. Finally, a reason to be thankful for his freakishly long limbs, he thought as he snagged the corner and dragged it toward him. 

“Yes, this is standard procedure for media headed to the palace,” Chipper said, back on solid ground. “As you can imagine, Aldovia doesn’t host large scale media events very often — so this is just a way to ensure that everything stays as orderly and clear as possible for our esteemed international visitors!”

“Uh huh,” Sam grunted, focusing more on hopping into his pants. “Well, thanks.”

“If there’s  _ anything _ else we can do for you during your stay,” the voice gushed, “ _ please _ don’t hesitate to let us know. Have a  _ wonderful _ day!”

He wasn’t so sure about that.

—

Attempting to prevent his tie from strangling him, Sam hurried to the lobby.

Couldn’t Lucifer have let him know about this  _ sooner _ ? he thought, pulling out his phone to re-read the email he had discovered while brushing his teeth. He wanted to be certain he had Lucifer’s number at the ready, just in case — he was getting that press badge no matter what. Although — he paused, trying to struggle through the time conversion. It would be about 3 in the morning in New York. Hopefully Lucifer would actually pick up. Thank God he had given his personal number, and not his office number.

Sam refused to contemplate any other motives Lucifer might have had for giving his personal number. Distantly, he could hear the ghost of Ruby laughing at him in his head.

There was quite a crowd already in the lobby. People in various degrees of business dress milled around and Sam saw more than a few hiding yawns in cardboard coffee cups.

A knot of people at one end of the lobby, near the glass doors, clustered around a table stacked with papers and badges. Sam could hear a voice rising above the rest, commanding the crowd.

“ — your badge, which must be displayed on your person at all times, and please read the briefing materials, as they outline what you can and cannot ask.”

A man who looked nearly as tall as Sam himself, wearing a dark suit whose seams pulled tight at the shoulders, sat in front of large stacks of folders holding a clipboard stuffed with papers. With his free hand he was busy plucking packets and badges from various locations, barely glancing down. All of his movements were economical and precise, giving the impression of either extreme control or robotic programming. Between that and the intense customer service cheer, Sam felt increasingly like he was in some alternate reality.

“Next!” the man called out, glancing around the group. His eyes were a strangely piercing blue.

“Sam Winchester, Hell’s Kitchen,” Sam jumped in, approaching the table. The man flicked his gaze over Sam, then glanced at his clipboard. He flipped a couple of pages forward, frowned, then flipped a few more. Sam’s grip grew sweaty on his phone. 

Finally he stopped and looked up at Sam, moving nothing but his eyes.

“Ah,” he said, his voice conveying a wealth of meaning. “The late entry.”

He picked up a yellow highlighter and drew it across the paper with a precision that suggested extreme prejudice. That accomplished, he set the highlighter aside and took a folder from the top stack. Placing it precisely in front of Sam, he disappeared behind the table for a moment, leaning down for something. 

He reappeared with a white rectangle on a black lanyard — a press badge, Sam assumed.

“Welcome to Aldovia, Mr. Winchester,” he began, clearly reciting from some sort of script. “My name is Gadreel. I am the assistant to the Royal Press Secretary. Here is your badge, which must be displayed on your person at all times.” He paused in the act of handing it over, his eyebrows slightly drawn.

“Since you were added to the docket rather late,” he said, in tones implying this was a grievous offense, equal to murder, “ — you have been issued a generic press badge that will need to be returned after the conference. Do not lose it. Please,” he added, clearly an afterthought.

“...Okay,” Sam said, and took the badge. There was a split second of resistance from Gadreel before he could tug it away. 

Back on script, Gadreel continued.

“Please read the briefing materials,” he said, tapping one long finger on the folder in front of Sam, “as they outline what you can and cannot ask.”

“Sorry, what?” Sam asked, not certain he had understood.

Gadreel frowned, clearly finding it distasteful to go off script.

“The briefing materials,” he said, enunciating each syllable precisely. “It is of the utmost importance that you read the packet and abide by its instructions during the press conference. The palace has made that very clear to us, and so we make it clear to you.”

“Uh, okay,” Sam said. He slid the folder from under Gadreel’s finger and off the table. 

“Thanks,” he added, before turning away.

“Next!” he heard Gadreel call behind him.

_ Weird _ , Sam thought, wandering over to an unoccupied corner and flipping the folder open.

Inside the royal blue folder was a neatly stapled packet. The cover page simply listed the date, time, and subject of the conference — _ December 19, 2017, 10:30 A.M. - International Press Conference with HRH Prince Castiel Milton _ — and beyond that was a dizzying bulleted list of items, very clearly labeled “Approved Topics of Discussion” and “Forbidden Topics of Discussion”. 

Given Gadreel’s demeanor, Sam figured it would be smart to start with what he absolutely  _ shouldn’t _ ask.

**FORBIDDEN TOPICS OF DISCUSSION**

  * The line of royal succession
  * The parliamentary elections of 2016
  * The parliamentary elections of 2018



The list continued in a similar fashion, excluding any political discussion from the conference.

Sam frowned.  _ Wouldn’t that make a discussion about the future direction of the country somewhat difficult? _ he wondered. Whether or not the prince took the crown would definitely affect the political workings of Aldovia.

He flipped back to the front of the packet to look at the approved list.

**APPROVED TOPICS OF DISCUSSION**

  * The prince’s decision regarding the crown
  * The prince’s extensive travel abroad
  * The prince’s charity work
  * The prince and Duchess Meg



The list continued on, and suddenly it made sense.

The prince must  _ really _ need help revamping his image, if they were only letting reporters ask about things that made him look good. 

Except, Sam remembered — in the eyes of the Aldovians (or at least the Aldovian media), all of this stuff made the prince look  _ bad _ .

Something seemed off about the conference, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. He blamed it on the jet lag once more, and set off to look for some coffee before the vans all departed, slinging the badge lanyard over his neck as he went off.

—

Reporters were surprisingly docile when they were nearly all jetlagged and under-caffeinated. The process of herding everyone into the large black vans that pulled up to the front of the hotel was quick and painless, and Sam tried not to look like he was doing this for the first time, watching everyone closely to copy their motions. 

Maybe this was how it was always done, he rationalized, folding himself into the middle seat and trying not to knock elbows with the woman on his left, who was staring out the window.

Within a few minutes, the vans rumbled to life nearly soundlessly and pulled onto the main street, passing by all of the cheerful buildings that were just coming to life.

Sam’s rowmate suddenly twitched, as if she was shaking off fatigue, and turned to him with an outstretched hand.

“Joanna Harvelle, Washington Post,” she said. Her eyes briefly flicked down to his press badge, which simply read ‘PRESS — By Approval of the Royal Press Secretary of the Kingdom of Aldovia.’ “Who’re you with?”

“Sam Winchester, Hell’s Kitchen,” he said, after a brief pause during which he regretted his life choices. He shook the offered hand, and glanced at her own badge — not only was her name and publication printed on it, but there was also a small photo, along with the requisite PRESS designation from the Royal Press Secretary.

Her expression of polite interest immediately lost the interest.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, smile still in place but gone faintly pitying. Taking her hand back, she gave him a nod and turned to look out the window. Sam gave her points for her commitment to the follow through.

“Did you say  _ Hell’s Kitchen _ ?” a voice guffawed in the back row.

Sam sighed inwardly, prepared to face judgement from yet another highly esteemed publication.

“Yeah,” he said, turning in his seat.

A pudgy, balding man with rosy cheeks and a bulbous nose grinned meanly.

“You gonna make some stupid quiz about the prince for all the whiny youth of today?” he asked.

Before Sam could reply (or even think of a reply), Joanna abandoned her contemplation of the window and turned around.

“And you’re from the National Patriot Press,” she said, reading off the pudgy man’s press badge. “You gonna write about how the royal family is a bunch of homosexuals, destroying today’s youth?”

She turned back around while the man was still spluttering and turning a more violent shade of red.

Sam leaned in to his neighbor and murmured, “Thanks.”

She waved a hand. “If there’s one thing I hate more than publications pretending at news, it’s fake news. Er, no offense,” she added hastily, apparently realizing the insult.

“None taken,” Sam replied wearily. He’d expected nothing more.

The rest of the drive passed without incident, as the crowd of reporters became more occupied with staring out the windows at the passing countryside. 

It really was a beautiful place, Sam reflected, gaze wandering over the snow-covered mountains and the icicle-laden tree branches that sparkled in the bright winter sun.

As the vans left the festively decorated town center, the signs of human life dwindled. Here and there a curl of smoke rising above the barren trees indicated a far-off cottage, but for the most part the landscape remained picturesque and serene. It was a fairly long drive, the vans trundling sedately along winding roads.

A castle suddenly rose into view as the vans crested a rise, sharp spires winding gracefully into the air. Sam pulled out his phone to take a picture, mind jumping ahead to what Ruby and Crowley would say when they saw it. Judging from the flurry of movement throughout the van, he wasn’t the only one.

Castle Aldovia was fairly large — or so Sam thought, not really having much experience with the average size of royal castles. It seemed to be made primarily of a light tan stone, and was not that tall — two stories at the most, sprawling out longer than it was tall. Aside from the usual towers and parapets that one would expect from a castle, there was a large, arched entryway with massive red doors flanked by two guards that were hilariously small in comparison, and a circle drive in front of it all that was filled with pristine, white gravel. In the center of the drive there was a large fountain, made less impressive with the lack of water. 

The entire castle was dripping with red velvet drapings, vibrant greenery, and general Christmas cheer of the same sort that the town had been decorated in. It was  _ inescapable _ . 

The vans pulled up neatly into the circle drive and rolled to a stop. All of the reporters exited into the morning chill, blinking in the sun reflecting off the snow.

There was a smartly dressed woman standing on the front steps of the palace, holding a clipboard. Her blonde hair hung neatly down her back, pulled away from her face with a clip. 

“Good morning everyone,” she called to the motley crew of reporters. “My name is Rachel, and I will guide you to the palace press room. There, the Royal Press Secretary will be leading the official press conference with His Royal Highness, the Prince. I trust you have all read through your press packets?” She arched one perfectly sculpted brow and waited to receive a few scattered nods before continuing.

“Good. This way, please, and do keep up with the group. It wouldn’t do for anyone to get lost.”

She turned on her heel and marched off with the same strange precision to her movements as Gadreel from the hotel that morning. The guards, snapping to attention to pull open the doors, were perfectly in sync. Sam thought for a moment of wind-up automatons, and wondered if that air was some sort of prerequisite for working at the palace.

He peeked at one of the guards as they passed, trying to view his face underneath the funny, floppy velvet hat he wore. (There was plumage involved. Sam desperately wanted a picture for Ruby.) The guard seemed impossibly young, with blonde fringe poking out from under his hat and spots on his cheeks. The tip of his nose was red — the only sign he was at all affected by the cold.

As if sensing he was being watched, the guard — _ kid _ , there was no better word for it — turned and caught Sam’s eye just before the group cleared the door. Sam guiltily snapped his head forward. He didn’t want to let  _ everyone _ know he was the awkward, newbie reporter.

The main doors opened onto what was clearly the grand entrance hall — marble floors, plush red carpeting trimmed in gold, giant crystal chandeliers, suits of armor along the walls. Straight ahead of them was an enormous, sweeping marble staircase, the same red carpet climbing the stairs. In deference to the Christmas season, thick pine garland draped across the banisters all the way up. The garland was interspersed with red velvet bows the same color as the carpet. At the top, what must have been the largest and grandest fir tree in Aldovia had pride of place. It was draped in garland and studded with ornaments, and crowned with an elaborate gold star. 

“ _ This way _ , please,” called Rachel, a tinge of impatience seeping into her voice, breaking the spell the Christmas tableau had cast over the reporters. She turned to the right and headed down a hallway, leading the group to a heavy oak door that swung open into a grand hall, this time done in tasteful powder blue and cream. Rows of ornately carved white chairs stretched forward to a short stage at the far end, on which rested a wooden podium. The royal crest hung on the wall above the stage, the largest thing in the room. One wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out on the circle drive. 

All the reporters filed into the room, jockeying for the front. The more bloodthirsty ones made a beeline for the front row, and Sam’s hesitation to assess the scene cost him — he ended up towards the back of the crowd. 

And yet, despite that, the entire contingent of reporters only took up about half of the room. Sam spotted Joanna’s wavy blonde hair near the front. 

Once everyone had settled in, Sam took the time to open the recording app on his phone. He pulled out his small notebook and flipped to a fresh page. He clicked his pen. He looked over the bizarre press restrictions one more time, feeling yet again that there was something not quite right about this press conference.

An unobtrusive door to the left of the stage opened, and immediately everyone was on their feet. Sam also shot up, thankful yet again for his long limbs —even towards the back of the crowd, he had no trouble seeing over everyone’s heads . 

A short, unassuming man with dark, frizzy hair climbed the stage. He looked like anyone’s kindly old uncle, with a slight stoop to his shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard. He was dressed in a suit with a small lapel pin that, judging by the shape, seemed to be a replica of the royal crest. 

He tapped a finger on the microphone. 

“Good morning everyone,” he began, in a somewhat nasally voice. “My name is Marvin Enoch, and I am the Royal Press Secretary.” He quirked his lips, as though laughing at a private joke, and added, “The voice of God around here, if you will. Let me just begin by thanking all of you for traveling from far and wide to be with the royal family today. On behalf of the Kingdom of Aldovia and Her Majesty, the Queen Rebecca, let me express a warm welcome and a Merry Christmastide.” He paused for the polite applause that followed, and took the time to adjust his glasses before continuing.

“We know that all of you have come, eager to hear from the Crown Prince himself about the monumental decision he will make. Unfortunately, it is with the deepest regret that I must announce that His Royal Highness will be unable to attend the press conference, and we must cancel.”

What?  _ No! _ Sam felt his stomach plummet. This was supposed to be his big break. The first chance he’d ever gotten for a story, the first door he’d gotten a foot in, and they’d slammed it shut.

“Thank you all for coming,” Enoch continued, raising his voice over the growing murmurs of the crowd. “Your vans will see you safely back to the hotel.”

“Hold on,” a voice called, and Sam saw Joanna waving a hand in the air. “That can’t be all. Is the Prince okay? Is he sick?”

“He just doesn’t care,” a voice piped up from somewhere Sam couldn’t identify. At that outburst, the noise in the hall broke into shouts as everyone directed questions towards the stage.

“Has he given any indication of his choice?”

“Is the Prince even in Aldovia?”

“Will the press conference be rescheduled?”

Grasping at any chance to salvage the situation, Sam strained to hear the answer. If it was rescheduled he could save his story.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please, settle down,” Enoch pleaded from the podium, attempting to regain control of the room. It had no effect on the crowd, which had smelled blood and was not going to back down.

Sam stood and stretched an arm up, using every inch of his considerable height to his advantage, and waited patiently. 

“Ah, yes! The polite and incredibly tall gentleman in the back!” Enoch said gratefully into the microphone, waving an arm back at Sam.  _ Bingo. _

Projecting his voice through the room, Sam said, “Doesn’t the palace owe it to us to reschedule the conference? After all,” he added, seizing on a hunch he’d gotten from his slapdash research, “It’s what His Majesty, King Richard, would have wanted. We need the chance to cover this story fairly, and honor his memory.”

“That’s right, this is what King Richard would have wanted!” a voice shouted from his left, and the thought was picked up and echoed by various voices throughout the room. It was a madhouse. Sam could feel his hopes rising — maybe this would work, and he wouldn't have to go back home empty-handed and be doomed to write superficial quizzes for the rest of his life.

A sudden burst of feedback squealed through the room. Wincing, Sam slapped his hands over his ears, and around him the crowd quieted down in their own attempts to save their eardrums from rupturing.

“Ladies and gentlemen,  _ that is quite enough _ ,” Enoch snapped into the microphone, his voice hardened into something nearly unrecognizable.

“At this time we will ask you all to leave. The press conference is canceled and it will not be rescheduled. An official statement will be released and the text of such will be sent to all of your publications.”

Enoch’s shoulders resettled into the slight hunch he’d had on entering the room, and with a tentative smile he appeared the kindly uncle once more.

“Thank you all for coming, and Merry Christmas,” he said sincerely. 

_ Just kidding _ , Sam thought bleakly. It would be quizzes and .GIFs pronounced .JIFs from here until eternity. He should just move back to Kansas now.

“This is such  _ bullshit _ ,” someone muttered from his left.

Turning, Sam caught Joanna’s unhappy expression as she slouched down the aisle between the chairs. 

She glanced over at him, face pinched, and mouthed again:  _ Bull.SHIT. _

Sam nodded in agreement.

After Joanna passed, Sam looked around the room and realized he was the last one out. Enoch had disappeared back the way he’d come, and Rachel would have been the first out the door, to direct all the reporters back to the vans.

There was no one else in the room. Just Sam, a bunch of empty chairs, and dozens of briefing packets discarded in disgust.

_ Huh.  _

An idea surfaced in Sam's head and though he hated the fact that he was even  _ considering  _ it, nevertheless the thought was there:

It wouldn't hurt to just...wander around a little, would it? Take an unguided tour of the palace?

He thought of everyone back at home, waiting for him to make something of himself. Of the year he had spent going nowhere. Maybe what he needed was just a little bit of initiative.

He wouldn't hurt anything.

_ Fuck it.  _ He left his folder on the chair and walked quickly to the exit, his steps muffled on the plush carpet. He paused just inside the door, and with his heart suddenly pounding in his ears, he slowly glanced around the frame into the hallway.

It was empty. All the reporters had cleared out. If he was going to go, he had to do it now.

Sam gave in to something he hadn't acknowledged since he was a child and sent up a quick mental prayer as he stepped out into the hallway. 

The movement jarred the lanyard around his neck, making it click softly against the buttons of his blazer.

_ The press badge _ . He hurriedly slipped it over his head and tucked it away in his pocket, then pulled out his phone and prepared for thorough photographic documentation of his tour.

—

Turning right out of the door instead of left, Sam headed further down the hall and deeper into the palace. 

If there was anything his ragtag childhood had taught him, it was that if exude an air of purpose, generally people won’t ask questions.

So he straightened his shoulders, took out his phone and held it casually in front of him like he was checking a message, and strode down the hall.

_ I’m...heading to the bathroom _ , he decided.  _ I was told it was this way _ . 

The hallway, truth be told, was kind of boring. Sam snapped a few pictures of decorative flower arrangements sitting on marble side tables, and one of a particularly ugly statuette, but nothing was actually  _ interesting _ .  

Maybe he’d have to get creative.

At the next set of double doors, he cautiously laid a hand on the knob and carefully twisted.

With a soft click, he slowly eased the door open, adrenaline making his hand shake a little. He peered through as best as he could, holding his breath.

He couldn’t see or hear anyone.

So he pushed the door open enough to slip through and carefully eased it shut again.

He found himself in a short hall, lined with white columns that held up a gracefully arched ceiling. Just like everything else Sam had seen, the room appeared to be purely decorative and served no actual purpose.

Marble statues stood between the columns. Sam took a picture of the view down the hall, then moved closer to look at a statue halfway down. Its large wings and dynamic, leaping pose, sword outstretched, made it the most eye-catching thing in the room. He took a picture of the statue, then crouched to read the small bronze plaque on its base.

“ _ Ahem _ .”

Slowly, Sam looked up from the base of the statue into the face of a woman with her hair pulled back into a severely styled bun. She wore a severely dark expression to match.

“What,” she began, eyebrows drawing together. “ — Are you doing here.”

It was not a question.

Sam stood. His full height had no effect on the disapproval pouring off the woman in waves.

“Well you see, I — uh — ” he stammered, caught off guard. 

The woman made a derisive ‘tsk’ noise.

“Ah,” she said. “ _ American _ .” Her tone implied this was Not Good.

“...Y-eees,” Sam said slowly, struggling frantically to recall his half-assed cover story. “I’m — ”

“ — early,” she finished for him, fingers tapping on her arm where they were crossed. “I thought your agency told us you were only free after the new year.”

“Well, I was, originally,” he said, chucking the old cover out the window. “But I had some...unexpected cancellations. So they sent me early.” He mentally crossed his fingers and sent out another prayer to whoever was listening that he was being vague enough to squeak by without suspicion, or without being thrown in the dungeon, or executed by firing squad, or whatever they did in this country. All he wanted was for this woman to  _ go away. _

Her eyes rolled, even as her arms uncrossed.

“Americans,” she said again derisively. “No one alerted us to this fact. Quite unprofessional, unfortunately a common trait among your countrymen. Well, come along — I suppose you may as well be introduced to the princess now.” 

The _ princess? _ Sam’s vision tunneled. What the hell had he just done?

The woman turned sharply and headed back the way she had come, not waiting for Sam to get his brain back online. Her heels clicked rapidly over the marble floor as she reached the other end of the hall and threw the doors open.

They’d emerged back into the main entrance hall. Sam blinked, disoriented. The castle layout was  _ confusing. _

“I trust you have at least the first weeks’ lesson plans prepared?” she asked as they crossed the hall.

Still stuck on ‘the princess’, Sam barely picked up on ‘lesson plans’.

Well, it was now or never. He had to commit.

“I — yes, of course,” he said, scrambling after the woman as she turned sharply to head up the main, sweeping staircase. 

About halfway up, the woman looked back, not breaking her stride. 

“You don’t look much like a Kevin Tran,” she said, a glimmer of suspicion highlighting her tone.

“...I, uh, take after my mother,” Sam said, internally panicking. “I get that a lot.”

She shook her head.

“ _ Americans _ ,” she sighed deeply, for the third time.

When she turned back Sam blew out a breath as quietly as he could. He couldn't believe that had worked.

“I am Naomi, the royal family’s chief of staff,” she said as they reached the second floor landing. “If you should ever need assistance, direct all questions and requests to me.”

Skirting a wide path around the tree, she switched tracks without pause. “While I’m sure your agency attempted to teach you proper royal protocol, you must forgive us for making certain you have received the proper guidance. You will receive more in-depth instruction, but for now, be advised: you are to bow when in the presence of the queen. Only address her as Your Majesty. Address the princess as Your Highness. A smaller bow, no more than 45 degrees, is appropriate for her.”

They headed down a hallway that looked nearly identical to the one downstairs, except here there were more closed doors. 

“Do not refer to things as 'awesome’ or 'cool’,” Naomi droned on. “Never swear, and, most importantly — ” she punctuated this with a glance back at Sam — “ _ never _ mention the King.”

They were approaching a pair of oak double doors that were slightly ajar. Voices became audible as Naomi and Sam came closer.

“ — have to understand, Castiel, this is for your own good!” A woman said.

_ Castiel?  _ As in, the prince?

“Right, because I clearly feel welcomed back to my own home,” another voice shot back, unexpectedly gravelly and somehow…strangely familiar.

Naomi cleared her throat loudly and rapped on the door. The conversation abruptly paused.

“Yes, enter,” the woman called.

Naomi pushed both doors open and stepped inside, bowing gracefully at the waist. 

“Your Majesty,” she said, straightening. “... And Your Highness. May I present Her Highness the Princess Gabriella’s new tutor, Mr. Kevin Tran of the United States.”

She swept an arm towards Sam, who belatedly stepped into the room and jerked forward at the waist into something he thought maybe passed for a bow. He had been momentarily distracted by the second person in the room.

Crown Prince Castiel Milton of Aldovia, the owner of the gravelly voice, looked taller and broader in person than he did in photos — which meant of course he was still shorter and slighter than Sam.

His eyes were bluer in person, set off by the navy sweater he wore, and they widened in recognition. 

Suddenly Sam remembered where he had seen him before: cutting in line at the taxi stand at the airport.

“You shaved,” Sam said dumbly.

They blinked at each other.

The prince cracked a rueful grin and brought a hand up to his face.

“Yes, I was told it was undignified,” he said. 

“That is  _ not _ what I said, I said you looked like a cave troll,” a newcomer piped up, squeaking into the room through a side door. 

Squeaking, Sam realized, because she was in a wheelchair.

“Your Highness,” Naomi said, sketching a smaller, yet no less precise bow that was probably exactly 45 degrees.

“Ah, Gabriella,” the woman — the  _ queen,  _ Sam’s mind helpfully provided — standing behind the large wooden desk said. “Please come meet your new tutor, Mr. Tran. I see he's already met your brother.” She arched an eyebrow at her son. 

“Yes, we ran into each other at the airport yesterday,” the prince said, and Sam thought he looked almost...apologetic. “I'm afraid it wasn't the best of first impressions.”

“Not with that beard, it sure wasn't,” the princess said helpfully, gently rolling her chair into her brother's legs. He grinned down at her, huffing out a laugh. Just like the picture Sam had seen online, the smile completely transformed his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners.  He had very white teeth.

“Gabriella,” the queen gently admonished. “If princesses have nothing nice to say..”

“They say nothing at all,” Gabriella sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. The prince dropped a hand on her head and ruffled her copper curls, which were halfway between the dark brown hair of the prince and the light blonde of her mother.

Her mother the queen. The queen of the entire  _ country. _ In fifteen minutes Sam had gotten himself into a room with the  _ entire royal family _ . 

Crowley was going to go ballistic.

“Mr. Tran,” the queen began, and it took Sam a second to remember she was talking to  _ him _ . She moved out from behind the desk, saying, “It is wonderful to meet you. Isn’t it, Gabriella?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, studying her fingernails.

“ _ Gabriella _ ,” the queen said warningly.

The princess sighed, and parroted dutifully, “It is  _ wonderful _ to meet you, Mr. Tran.”

Sam heard the prince murmur, “Gabby, come on,” as the queen continued, “We're delighted that you’re here, and ahead of schedule!”

She stopped in front of Sam and he panicked. Was he supposed to bow again? Shake her hand?  _ Kiss _ her hand?

Naomi helped out by interjecting from behind him.

“Quite ahead of schedule,” she said. “It was a surprise for all of us.”

“...There were unexpected cancellations,” Sam repeated, sticking to his cover. “I’m at the..the big hotel in the center of town.” He couldn’t remember what it was called. What was it called?! Was there more than one hotel?

“Well, that won’t do!” the queen said, smiling. “You will, of course, be staying here. It’s earlier than expected but I’m sure we can get rooms ready for you, can’t we, Naomi?” 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the chief of staff in question answered. “They can be ready in a few hours. We’ll have to arrange transportation back to the Elysium, of course, so Mr. Tran can retrieve his luggage.”

_ Right _ , the hotel was called the Elysium. 

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Sam managed. “It’s been great to meet you all. Especially you, Princess,” he added, remembering he was supposed to be her tutor. Better start trying to build a connection, right?

Gabriella frowned sharply.

“You’re supposed to call me Your Highness,” she said, with particular emphasis on her proper title. 

“ _ Gabriella _ ,” the Queen said severely. “That is quite enough. Princesses do not treat royal guests poorly, especially not ones who are here to help them. You will show Mr. Tran to the study and entertain him until the car is ready to take him to his hotel. Do you understand?”

Gabriella blew out a gusty sigh that fluttered her bangs, casting her gaze to the floor. Her chair squeaked a little on the polished parquet floor. 

“Do you understand?” the Queen asked, a little more sharply. 

Sam, trying to look at anything in the room other than the family drama taking center stage, accidentally caught Prince Castiel’s eyes as he did the same thing. There was a fleeting moment when Sam thought they shared that connection all people experience when exposed to what should be a private embarrassing moment, but it passed quickly and their gazes broke. 

“ _ Yes _ , I understand, Mother,” Gabriella said forcefully. Jerking on her wheels sharply, her chair turned around with a jarring squeak. 

“This way, Mr. Tran,” she said with enough cheer to match the employees at Sam’s hotel. Without waiting for a reply, she started rolling out of the room at a fast-paced clip. 

“Uh, Your Majesty.  - _ ies. _ Um. Your Highness,” Sam garbled out in farewell. Addressing royalty was so  _ bizarre _ . Remembering Naomi’s instructions, he bent awkwardly, sweeping an arm out limply in a hastily sketched bow. Then he turned, his shoes making the same squeak as Gabriella’s wheels, and hurried after the princess.

Since she still hadn’t turned around, Sam felt justified in physically slapping himself on the forehead once he was safely in the hallway. 

Ahead of him, the princess was fast approaching the end of the hallway, marked by a large vase standing on a pedestal. The princess swung a sharp left at top speed. The chair skidded, one of the wheels lifting up from the ground entirely. 

Sam saw Princess Gabriella’s face lose its scowl, to be replaced with shock as her hands flailed to correct herself. He was already jogging towards her when her chair knocked into the pedestal, sending the vase toppling to the ground.

It hit the parquet and shattered into countless, tiny, porcelain pieces, the crash echoing down the long hallway. 

Sam caught up with the princess, who had managed to right her chair, her face still blank with shock and her eyes wide.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked her.

“I — ” she began, and then focused on something behind him.

“Oh, Mr. Tran, that was  _ quite _ careless of you,” she said smoothly, erasing the shock from her face and replacing it with concern. 

“Is everything alright?” Sam heard from behind him. He turned to face the queen, Naomi, and, pushing his way between them, the prince, who were all glancing between the princess, Sam, and the broken vase in turn. 

“Yes, we’re all fine. Mr. Tran just wasn’t looking, and bumped over the vase. It was an accident,” Princess Gabriella lied, eyes wide and innocent.

_ Oh shit _ . This was it. He was going to get fired from his fake job before he even started. He couldn’t very well tell them it had been Gabriella — who were they going to believe? The actual member of the royal family and a twelve year old disabled child, or a man here under a false identity, spying on them for an American millenial gossip rag? 

“Are you okay, Gabby?” Prince Castiel asked, brushing by Sam to kneel next to his sister. Sam stuck to the wall as much as possible to give him room, crunching over bits of vase as he did so.

“Yes, stop worrying,” Gabriella said breezily. But her face was still pale enough to invalidate her carefree tone, Sam thought — and the prince seemed to agree, because he frowned and looked like he was about to say something else when another voice broke in.  

“That vase was from the  _ Ming Dynasty _ ,” Naomi began hotly, only to be interrupted by the queen, who raised one hand.

“It’s fine, Naomi. It was just an accident. The important thing is that no one is hurt,” Queen Rebecca said, looking them both over.

“R-right. Yes,” Sam said hastily. That vase had been over 500 years old. He’d have to work in the (probably) drafty dungeons of the castle until he  _ died _ to pay that off. 

“Although, please do take care, Mr. Tran,” the queen said, not unkindly. “This place may be like an outdated museum, but it is also our home.” She smiled to take the sting from her words.

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. I can clean this up for you — ” Sam offered, already leaning down. Maybe he could show how grateful he was at not being executed for vase destruction. At another wave of the queen’s hand, though, he halted.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. The staff will take care of it. Please, don’t worry,” she said, still smiling serenely. “Go on to the study with Gabriella.”

“Right. Of course. I really am sorry,” Sam said again, privately celebrating the fact that he had dodged paying for a) a mistake he hadn’t made and b) a priceless, 500-year-old vase. He turned back to the princess, catching her calculating gaze before she abruptly swung around once more and continued down the hall.

“Gabriella? Where are you taking him?” the queen called after her.

Looking over her shoulder, the princess replied with a bit of bite to her voice. “To the lift, Mother.”

“Oh. Of course. Well,” the queen rallied, “Naomi will come fetch you soon!”

Sam was close enough to hear the princess mutter, “Right,” under her breath.

Judging by the lack of decoration, Sam had to assume that this hallway was out of the way of most of the regular traffic through the palace.

At the far end, looking quite out of place with the rest of the 18th century architecture, was a stainless steel elevator door and a call button set into a panel next to the wall. Underneath the button was a keyhole.

Princess Gabriella fished a chain out from around her neck. A metal key dangled on the end of it. Using the key, she called the elevator. 

On the other side of the wall, Sam could hear the whirring and grinding of the elevator shuddering to life. Princess Gabriella, without a word, began the unexpectedly laborious process of turning herself around in her chair so she could back into the elevator — which, now that he took a longer look at the doors, seemed to be much smaller than a typical elevator’s. The hallway was a little too small for her to make the turn very gracefully, Sam realized belatedly, and he took a step back. 

The elevator arrived as she finished her turn, and when the door slid open she backed into the elevator — which was definitely smaller than usual. It was more the size of an old-fashioned service elevator, even though the construction itself was clearly modern. Sam squished himself in next to her.

As if sensing that he had questions about it, Princess Gabriella spoke up as she jabbed the ‘1’ button.

“They had to install it special for me,” she said, not looking at him. She kept stabbing the ‘1’ until the doors closed. “But there wasn’t a lot of room to put it in without tearing a lot of the palace apart, and since it’s a historical building, they couldn’t do that.”

“Did your mom think we were taking a different elevator? Uh, lift?” Sam asked.

She finally looked up at him.

“No, there’s just this one,” she said. “She thought we were taking the big staircase. Sometimes she forgets.”

The elevator slid to a stop and dinged lightly. The door slid open, and Sam squashed himself to the side of the carriage to let Princess Gabriella wheel out first. Once he unfolded himself into the corridor, Princess Gabriella stuck her key into the keypad and turned it so the light behind the call button dimmed.

“They gave me the only key to the lift, presumably to make me feel special,” she said casually, wheeling off once more. “Although I think it’s because Naomi doesn’t want the staff to get lazy. But really, it’s much more inconvenient to use the lift.”

“Why is that?” Sam asked, nearly jogging to keep up.

“Because it’s so far away from everything,” the princess replied, slowing down to carefully round a sharp corner. 

The study was located down the left hallway off the large marble entrance hall, instead of the right hall where the reporters had been earlier. As they crossed the floor, Sam glanced at the grand staircase once more. 

It certainly made a statement, he thought. It also seemed to be centrally located, with all hallways branching off from either the first floor entrance hall or the second floor landing just above him. Everything about it just seemed to punctuate Princess Gabriella’s difficulty moving around. He made a mental note to search for the Aldovian equivalent of the ADA.

The same parquet floor continued down the hallways, so Gabriella’s movement was announced by squeaks wherever she went. 

“Here,” she said abruptly, turning into a room framed by two massive oak doors that stood ajar. 

Both Sam and Gabriella entered silently, sound muffled by the emerald carpet lining the study from wall to wall. One end of the room was floor to ceiling windows, looking out onto the sunken courtyard in the back of the castle. The walls were lined with bookcases, and several long wooden tables filled the center of the room. Several modern filing cabinets and shelves indicated the study’s more recent conversion into a classroom. A bulbous fish bowl sat on top of one of the shelves, with a few inches of colorful rainbow gravel at the bottom. A bug-eyed goldfish swam back and forth, setting first one eye and then the other on the newcomers.

“This is Alfie,” Gabriella said, wheeling over to the shelf. She took a small canister of fish food, unscrewed it, and sprinkled a few flakes over the bowl. Alfie’s whole body wiggled up to the top and he sucked down the flakes.

“He’s my study buddy,” she said, as they both watched him cheerily circle his bowl.

There was silence for a few seconds, during which Sam shifted uneasily on the rich carpet and let the sheer insanity of the situation crash over him. Just thirty minutes ago he had led a near-rebellion of reporters in the press conference room as Sam Winchester. Now he was standing in the presence of royalty, royalty whom he needed to teach (what subjects did 12 year old royals even learn? Taxation? Family genealogy?  _ Geometry _ ?), all the while not forgetting that he was apparently an accredited American tutor named — named….

Shit. What was his fake name?! All he could remember was ‘Mr. Tran’, thanks to his horrendous excuse about taking after his mother’s side. His mother’s side,  _ Jesus. _

Something pinged Sam’s attention through the haze of steadily growing panic. 

Gabriella had switched from staring through the fishbowl to staring daggers at him.

“So, Mr. Tran,” she said, unblinking.

“Please, Mr. Tran was my father,” Sam said, surprising himself with the immediate lie. 

“Kevin, then,” Gabriella replied, peering up at him. 

_ Kevin _ . That’s what it was. He would have to think of a good lie to replace that name, because he was never going to remember it. 

“You can call me Sam,” he said, before he could change his mind.

“Sam? Why?” the princess said, eyebrows raised.

“Kevin was my dad's first name,” Sam managed. “And we didn’t really…get along. I go by my middle name, Sam.”

He held his breath. If Dean were here, he would be laughing his ass off at the horrendous lie. Gabriella just shrugged, her curls bouncing.

“Fine,” she said, turning away and wheeling to one of the large windows. “Mr. Kevin Sam Tran. Have fun explaining that a million times over.”

She stared out the window, hard.

“I’m not sure what Naomi told you about me,” she said abruptly. “Or what your agency had you prepare, but let’s get one thing straight — I don’t need one more person babying me here and I certainly don’t need YOU.”

She fell silent and didn’t turn around. Her shoulders were defensively hunched. 

Sam took his time wandering closer, remembering his own dysfunctional childhood. It didn’t really compare at all to growing up royal, but —

“Look, I get it,” he said. “I’m the younger sibling too. It sucks. No one believed that I could make my own choices. Everyone tried to decide things for me.”

He stopped at the desk nearest Gabriella and leaned against it, tucking his hands into his pockets. Gabriella’s head turned imperceptibly and she glanced at him out of her periphery.

“I promise I won’t baby you,” he said. “I think you can do anything you want to do. That’s what I did, anyway.”

“Is that why you and your father didn’t get along?” she asked, turning her head a fraction more in his direction.

He shrugged.

“Basically, yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t interested in the family business.”

She  _ hmph _ ed.

“I have a little less choice in that matter,” she muttered.

“Mr. Tran?” someone called from the doorway. Both Sam and Gabriella turned. 

It was one of the ridiculously dressed guards from the front doors — the one who looked like a kid.

_ Shit. Shitshitshit.  _ Would the kid remember seeing him with the reporters this morning? Sam thought furiously.

“Your Highness,” the guard added, sweeping into a bow. The plumage on his hat wobbled.

“Alfie,” she said.

_ Like the fish? _ Sam wondered, panic temporarily derailed.

Alfie straightened. “Mr. Tran, the car is ready for you. Please follow me."

“See you around, Sam,” Gabriella said, already turning back to the window.

“Your Highness,” Sam replied, worrying about Alfie. Maybe he was waiting until they were out of view of the princess, and any minute now Sam’d be thrown in the stocks.

But the guard said nothing, just led Sam out to a black SUV parked in the circle drive. Maybe he’d forgotten. Sam’s heart slowed.

It wasn’t until he was climbing into the car that he realized the princess had called him Sam without a trace of mockery.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Especially if Alfie kept his mouth shut.

—

Sam spent the long drive into and out of town trying to keep himself calm and come up with a rational plan of action. Miraculously, he managed to avoid running into any reporters at the hotel — and he remembered to give his press badge back to the front desk.

_ “Checking out for Sam Winchester,” he had said with a smile. “I was supposed to return the press badge but I completely forgot. I hope that’s not a problem!” _

_ “Of course not, Mr. Winchester,” the man at the front desk had replied. “We’ll take care of everything for you. Thank you for staying at the Elysium, and we hope to see you back soon!” _

_ Sam had smiled gratefully all the way back out to the SUV. _

As far as anyone knew now Sam Winchester was on his way out of the country and no one would suspect he was masquerading as an American tutor named Kevin Tran. For a while, at least. He just hoped it was long enough.

He had gotten as far as planning a call Lucifer as soon as he was alone when the SUV arrived back at the palace. It was early afternoon still, the sun high in the sky. 

Naomi was waiting for him on the front steps. The driver grabbed Sam’s bag and, waving him off when he reached for it, vanished through the front doors. 

“That was all you brought?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, uh, I’m having the rest shipped over soon,” he stammered, after a brief mental hiccup. Distantly he was shocked at how easily the excuse had come to him.

“Hm.” She turned and entered the palace, clearly expecting Sam to follow. He got the feeling he had been judged and found wanting, again.

“I trust you will find your accommodations suitable,” Naomi said, keeping a brisk pace up the marble stairs. Every action she made seemed pre-planned to be as efficient as possible — since she was the chief of staff, perhaps the entire castle had had to model themselves after her, Sam thought. That would explain the automaton aura. 

“I’m sure it will be fine — better than my own apartment, even,” Sam joked. The joke fell flat and she ruthlessly ignored its existence.

“I would hope so,” she said, making a sharp right at the top of the stairs. “You are in the royal palace, after all.”

Sam said nothing.

With a left, Naomi led Sam down a hallway that seemed just like every other — until, with a start, he recognized the empty pedestal at the far end. They had somehow come back around to the corridor where the vase had been broken, near the elevator lift.

He resigned himself to being hopelessly lost at all times.

There were three doors lining the left side of the hallway. The one at the very end had a royal guard, dressed in the same silly formal plumage and carrying a ceremonial spear, standing at attention next to the door. 

Naomi stopped by the first door, fishing out an enormous keyring from somewhere on her person.

Where had she been keeping it? How hadn’t it been jingling the entire time? 

He couldn’t keep from staring at the guard’s ridiculous feathered hat. Maybe if he asked nicely he could take one home as a souvenir. 

Naomi, finding the correct key on the first try, paused and followed Sam’s gaze.

“For the time being, those are the Prince’s quarters,” she said. “You would do well not to disturb him while he is there. He needs his rest.”

The guard shifted, and something black poked out from under the edge of the embroidered velvet half-jacket he wore. 

It was a gun holster. Clearly the guard wasn’t just ceremonial. 

Well,  _ that _ was suspicious. Sam decided not to comment on it further.

“Your rooms, Mr. Tran,” Naomi said, indicating the spacious quarters with a short wave. “Bathroom through that door to the left. Please make yourself comfortable. And here — ” 

She pulled the key off of her keyring and held it out to Sam, dropping it in his hand. 

“Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t,” Sam said, closing his fingers around the key.

Naomi nodded curtly to him and made an about-face, heading to the door. She stopped before exiting and turned back to him.

“Just in case you are unaware of the etiquette of being a palace guest,” she said, in the tone that indicated she definitely knew he was unaware. “Please refrain from too much boisterous noise. And don’t wander around in the middle of the night. And do not bother the guard — his priority is the personal safety of the prince, and it is a duty he takes very seriously.”

“Okay,” Sam said, after a short pause where Naomi stared at him expectantly. 

“You have a few hours to settle in,” she said. “At that point, someone will be along to fetch you for dinner.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Naomi pulled the doors closed. Sam blew out a long, slow breath and collapsed onto the plush bedspread.

—

After giving himself a few minutes to absorb the situation, Sam levered himself upright and pulled out his phone and laptop. It occurred to him then that he had no idea if the palace had WiFi, or what the password was.

Fortunately, a sheet of paper placed on the nightstand gave him a list of guidelines for his stay.

_ The Royal Household of Aldovia Welcomes You _ , it read. It contained instructions on how to operate the shower, call for assistance, turn on the TV, and very importantly, connect to the WiFi.

He set up his laptop and attempted to connect to his email. While he waited, he decided he’d better get his call to Lucifer over with. 

Not giving himself time to overthink it, Sam pulled out his phone. He spared a second to bemoan international calling rates and dialed Lucifer’s number. If he timed this right, he should still be at work.

The line rang and Sam paced the room out of nervous habit.

“Ah, Sammy!” Lucifer said, sounding inordinately pleased. “So nice of you to call. The office is so empty without you.”

Sam chose to ignore that and get straight to the point.

“Hey, Lucifer. I’m glad I caught you. I may have…gotten into a minor situation. Which may or may not be legal.”

“Are you in jail?” Lucifer demanded, suddenly dropping his pleasant tone. 

“No! No, nothing like that. But I am, uh, calling you from inside the palace. Where — “

Ignoring Lucifer’s sudden squawk of “WHAT?!”, Sam rushed on, trying to get the whole story out, knowing exactly how ridiculous it sounded.

“ — where I may be staying now. Because — long story short — they think I’m the princess’s new tutor.”

“Wait, wait. Back up, and tell me everything,” Lucifer demanded, sounding much closer to the phone. “How in the world did you trick them into believing you weren’t a reporter?”

“Well, it wasn’t anything I did, not exactly,” Sam said. “The Chief of Staff happened to find me while I was, uh…snooping around. Sort of. And when she noticed I was American she drew her own conclusions. I just…didn’t correct anyone.”

“Sam, don’t be so modest,” Lucifer said, oozing pride down the line. “How very enterprising of you! So what exactly does this entail?”

“I’m filling in for the real new tutor…whose name is Kevin Tran.”

“TRAN?!”

“…I said I took after my mother’s side?” Sam tried, and was met with loud, barking laughter. He pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly.

“Sammy my boy, that is fantastic,” Lucifer said, mirth still in his voice. “If they’re gonna be this clueless they deserve to be infiltrated. Now, most importantly — you know what this means, right?”

Sam hesitated, wondering what Lucifer thought was the golden lining in all this. As he did, a sudden flash from his open laptop caught his attention. He moved closer, and the screen flashed again. It was his email’s instant messaging app.

“Come on Sam, use that big brain of yours!” Lucifer was urging in his ear, apparently done waiting for Sam to guess what this meant. “You’ve got special access to the royal family for the foreseeable future. That means…?”

Sam was busy looking at the messages frantically popping up on his screen. 

<<SAM>>, Ruby’s handle blinked at him.

<<SAM

SAMMY

SAMUEL

SAMANTHA SAMMY SAM SAMLENE>>

“…uh, that I can figure out what the prince is going to do before anyone else?” Sam guessed.

“Bingo! And not only that — Sam, you’ll have access to ALL of the palace gossip and scandal. This is GREAT news!”

“But it’s technically very illegal,” Sam pointed out distractedly, watching more messages pop up.

<<WE KNOW UR TALKING TO LUCY RN WE HEARD HIS CACKLING>>, Ruby was typing.

<<crowleys here too btw

we cant hear shit tho

hes in his office w the door closed

sitting behind his desk

prob jerking off 2 the sweet sweet sound of ur voice>>

<<NO>>, Sam frantically smashed out in return.

In his ear, Lucifer blew out a dismissive breath. “Sam. Sammy. Sam. Don’t worry about it! Just keep doing what you’re doing. This is your big break! You could go all the way with this.” 

“I’m not sure about that,” Sam muttered, his attention tipping further towards Ruby’s incessant messages. He wasn’t really thinking very much about what he was saying to Lucifer, which was never a great idea. “I met the prince. He was kind of a dick.”

<<OMG UR HERE!!!!>> Ruby had sent.

<<PAY ATTENTION TO MEEGYUageyuckac

ok to US 

jfc crowley bein a lil BITCbHAJegkja>>

“Oh? How so?” Lucifer suddenly sounded intrigued and Sam’s mental danger alert pinged. He hurriedly reviewed what he had just said, and cursed Ruby in his head for making him careless.

<<Ruby PLEASE>> he typed, holding his phone between his cheek and shoulder. 

“Well — “ and Sam hesitated, remembering how the prince had rushed straight to his sister after the vase broke, and how he had tweaked her curls. “Actually, I think maybe he was just tired or jetlagged or something. It wasn’t really a big deal.”

“Sam, what happened?” Lucifer asked, sounding less like he was intrigued by the possibility of salacious gossip. “Come on, you can tell me. Make the international call worth the charge.”

“It sounds stupid now,” Sam sighed, unable to think of a way to get Lucifer off his back. He’d just sell it as short as he possibly could. “He, uh, cut the taxi line in front of me at the airport. But to be fair, he was trying to escape the paparazzi. They’re kind of brutal here.”

“Sam, your feelings are valid,” Lucifer intoned gravely, sounding exactly like someone who found that validation ludicrous but had had the phrase drilled into him at the all-hands sensitivity training.

“...Thanks, I guess,” Sam said. “But aside from the prince, something’s definitely up here. I just...I don’t know. There’s a story here, I can feel it.” He thought again of the failed press conference, the strange list of approved topics, the armed guard outside the prince’s door — there was something off about it all. 

“ _ There’s _ that journalistic instinct I knew you had, Sam,” Lucifer said, a verbal clap on the back. “You have to stay on, no matter what. You’re telling the stories that  _ need _ to be told. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and your phone handy. I’m talking pictures, recordings, the works. Leave no stone unturned, etcetera etcetera.”

“What happens if I get caught?” Sam couldn’t help asking.

Lucifer turned serious.

“Don’t,” was all he said. “I believe in you.” 

Everything about this was technically wrong. He was lying to everyone. But on the other hand…

This was the first real assignment he’d gotten. And the chance to turn it into a major story had fallen into his lap, practically gift wrapped. What would happen if he went home? Another year, two max, of quizzes before quitting and moving back to Kansas, doomed to work in the family restaurant until he died of clogged arteries at 50?

No. Absolutely not.

Sam remembered the way the other reporters had reacted that morning when they'd found out where he worked--the tabloid reporter's chortling, Joanna's pity.

“Alright, I’m staying. I’ll keep you posted,” Sam told Lucifer. 

“Atta boy, Sammy,” his boss said. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

There was a click as he hung up.

Sam just stared at his phone for a minute, before he couldn’t ignore the insistent blinking from his laptop any longer.

<<SAM WHERED U GOOOOOOOO

COME BACK 2 US

Is the prince as attractive as he is in pictures?

...is CLEARLY what crowley wants 2 know, i dont care at ALL>>

Sam laughed to himself.

<<Do you have a few minutes?>> he typed out.

<<Cause if you do, I could video call…

I think you’re gonna want to hear this>>

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES for the huge delay! Thank you all SO MUCH for your comments on the first chapter. I hope you enjoy this second installment, which is 3x the length of the first haha. 
> 
> HUGE thanks to Alex and Jen again, who consistently save me from the horror of using the word 'neatly' a bajillion times. 
> 
> For rae, to celebrate your accomplishment :') so I wrote you another thesis as a present haha.
> 
> Also they're making a sequel to A Christmas Prince. #blessed
> 
> Bonus points if you picked up on the tiny SPN references I tried to sprinkle throughout :')


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we get to meet more of the family, sam doubles down on his identity theft, and there is a very ugly painting.

“You have GOT to be shitting me,” Ruby burst out, when Sam was done retelling the story of how he had committed identity theft.

Crowley, squished in next to her so they were both visible on Sam's laptop, had been silent for three entire minutes. For Crowley this was highly unusual. Sam was slightly worried his raised eyebrows would get stuck that way if he didn't unfreeze soon. 

“And they bought it?!” Ruby shook her head, the movement slightly delayed over the shaky connection. “Just when I thought the human race couldn't disappoint me any more, these fuckers have to prove me wrong. Full offense Sam, your cover story sucked ass.”

“I know!” Sam said. “But there's nothing I can do now except not get caught. Which is going to be tough. I've never tutored kids! I don't know what I'm doing!” He ran a hand through his hair.

Crowley leaned forward, finally jarred loose.“You told Lucifer that the prince was a _dick?”_ he asked, completely scandalized.

“I—Ruby distracted me!” Sam said.  

Ruby immediately cut her hand through the air in dismissal. 

“Oh no, this isn't on me,” she said. “Sounds like the prince had issues anyway. Sorry to burst your bubble, Crowley.”  

“I took it back,” Sam protested, somewhat uselessly. “I don't think his country knows anything about him. He seemed to really love his sister, at least.” He paused, thinking. “I also overheard something interesting. Before I met the queen, we were walking to her office and I overheard a bit of her conversation with the prince. He said something about not feeling welcome in his own home. And there's an armed guard posted outside his room, which is just down the hall from me.” 

Ignoring Ruby’s sing-song “OOooh, just down the _hall_ ”, Sam continued.

 “Which is kind of weird, isn't it?” he asked. “Shouldn't he be, I don't know, in his own wing? Or with the rest of the royal family? It's like…” he trailed off, trying to come up with a comparison. 

“It's like when you go off to college and your parents make your room into an exercise room, or whatever,” he said. “Except. That’s what you do when you're not expecting your kid to come back. And...weren't they expecting the prince to come back? And move in permanently as king?”

The three of them fell into contemplative silence.  

“Maybe...you said he only arrived yesterday, right?” Crowley said. “It's possible that, just like you, they need time to prepare his regular rooms.”

“Mine were ready in a few hours,” Sam said.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, and you're just a lowly commoner. Obviously they're going to put more work in for the crown prince. He probably has a whole wing of the palace.” 

There was silence once more. 

“Then we’re back to the asshole conclusion,” Ruby finally said. “If he says he doesn't feel welcome just because his _multiple rooms_ weren't ready for his last-minute return. How much space could one person possibly need? He's clearly not entertaining a lot of company, male, female, or otherwise.”  

Sam ran a hand through his hair again, snagging his fingers on a few tangles.  

“I don't know,” he said. “It's just...weird. At least now I have plenty of time to find out what's going on.”  

“Maybe the prince will invite you into his boudoir,” Ruby suggested, leering into the camera. 

Crowley glared at her. 

“Not really a priority, Ruby,” Sam said firmly. “Besides, I don't think that's his style.” 

“Well, you'll certainly find out, won't you,” Crowley said, letting his jealousy peek through.

“Aw, Crowley!” Ruby crooned, trying and mostly failing to pull him into a hug. “Don't be jealous, you'll always be the biggest queen in _my_ life.”

Sam just shook his head and chuckled while Crowley squawked and tried to free himself. 

“So what are you even gonna teach a princess, Sam?” Ruby asked, releasing Crowley. “How to pick .GIFs? Avoid overt sexual harassment from your boss?” 

“Ruby, _be quiet_ ,” Sam hissed. “He could hear you!” 

“Oh, he's not around,” Ruby said, blissfully unconcerned. 

Sam sighed. 

“Do either of you have any idea how to come up with lesson plans?” he asked.

There was a knock at Sam’s door.

Panicking, he slammed the laptop lid shut on Crowley’s “What was—” and whirled around.  

“Come in,” he called. As soon as it was out of his mouth he winced at how high his voice sounded.

Naomi opened the door and stepped in, followed by the princess and her squeaking wheels.  

“Your Highness,” Sam said. Seeing Naomi’s frown, he quickly bobbed his head.  

“Mr. Tran,” Naomi began. “Apologies for the intrusion. Her Royal Highness has something she would like to ask you.”

“Oh it's fine, I wasn't doing anything in particular,” Sam said. “Just...going over lesson plans.”

“That seems quite particular,” Naomi said in frosty tones. 

Gabriella rolled her eyes. 

“Naomi, please,” she said. “I’ve come to invite you, Mr. Tran, to be my guest to the party tonight.” She gave him a pointed look at the use of the name. 

“I'm sorry, party?” Sam asked. Gabriella looked to Naomi to answer. The chief of staff stiffened, her eyes almost imperceptibly wider. Sam took this to mean this invite hadn't been cleared with the chief of staff.

But at Gabriella’s nod, Naomi answered in a voice like each word was being reluctantly pulled out of her.

“Yes, the cocktail party tonight, for esteemed members of the nobility. And you, apparently,” she added, biting out each word. 

A gathering of nobility? What a fantastic journalistic opportunity. He was going to eavesdrop _so hard_. Except—  

“Is it—is formal dress required?” he asked, taking in the princess’s flouncy purple dress. “I'm afraid I don't have a tuxedo or anything with me.”

Naomi opened her mouth to answer (and judging by her expression, the answer wasn't going to be good) but she was cut off by Gabriella.

“Honestly, it's fine, Naomi,” she said, waving a hand. “Tutors don't need tuxedos. Come on, Mr. Tran!”

With that, she squeaked out of the room. Naomi followed, after shooting Sam a cold look. 

“Alright, alright.” Sam hurried out of his room, carefully locking the door behind him. As he did, he shot a glance down the hall—there was no longer a guard in front of the prince’s room. 

Where had he gone? 

Sam turned away from his door to face Naomi and Gabriella, and caught the tail end of the princess’s intense stare before she shifted her eyes away.  

Suddenly uneasy, he tried to cover it up with a grin. 

“Lead the way, Your Highness,” he said, ignoring Naomi's _tsk_.

As he followed Gabriella across the landing towards the elevator— _lift_ —he glanced down at the first floor and saw Prince Castiel crossing the entrance hall, accompanied by the guard who had been posted at his room. Even from the second floor, Sam could see how tight the prince’s shoulders were and the pointed space he was giving the guard. 

Sam looked at the back of Gabriella’s head, her curls bouncing slightly with the movement of her arms as she rolled herself forward. 

If the guard was for the prince’s protection, was there a guard for the _princess’s_ protection?

He was struck by a horrible thought.

Was _he_ supposed to protect the princess?

Not that he couldn’t—which was _something_ to thank his late father for, he'd grant the old man that—but Prince Castiel’s guard had a ceremonial spear. And a _gun_.

Wishing he had his notebook with him, Sam made another mental note to look up Aldovia’s gun laws.

\-- 

“Holodets, sir?”

Sam stared down at the beige jello monstrosity wobbling on the platter held out in front of him.

“What is this?” he asked as politely as he could manage in the face of such horror.

“Choice selections of beef, boiled slowly for eight hours and served in gelatin derived from the bones of the meat,” the tuxedoed server answered cheerily. “And onion. It's a local delicacy.” 

“No, thank you,” Sam managed to say, tearing his eyes away from the terrors lurking within the translucent jello.

“Good choice,” Princess Gabriella muttered to him as the server turned away to find some other poor, unsuspecting person to foist the... _thing_ on. 

The cocktail party was being held in a large sitting room on the ground floor, down a few doors from Princess Gabriella's 'classroom’. There were several couches and armchairs scattered throughout the room, some framing a large fireplace that was crackling and popping. Yet another Christmas tree stood in the corner, draped in so many decorations and lights it was hard to see the green of the pine needles.

The room was half-filled with elegantly dressed nobility—although Sam was sure he recognized a recently elected member of parliament standing by the mantle and holding a glass of what looked like champagne.  

“Now this is where the good stuff is,” Gabriella suddenly said, as Sam looked around for a place to get a glass of his own-—not because he thought it would be a good idea to drink, but because he wanted to avoid being the person at a party with empty hands. She made a beeline for the coffee table in front of the fireplace and Sam saw what had caught her attention—large platters of decorated cookies and bowls full of wrapped candies. 

“Come here, sit, sit,” she said, through a mouthful of cookie. She patted the armchair next to her.

“I'll be right there,” he promised, finally spotting a tray of champagne flutes in the distance. He pointed in that direction and Gabriella rolled her eyes, but was too busy taking another bite to say anything. 

Sam crossed the room, self-consciously running a finger under his collar. He _hated_ ties, they always felt like they were strangling him.

It didn't help that his fancy international press conference clothes from this morning were several degrees less fancy than anything anyone else was wearing. 

At least Gabriella didn't appear to care, Sam thought, glancing over as she picked through the candy bowl for all the green-wrapped ones.  

“Champagne, sir?” a server asked as he neared. 

“Yes, please,” Sam said gratefully, taking the delicate stem of the glass. He took a sip absently as the server moved away, and was about to head back to Gabriella when he realized who he was standing near: the queen and an imposing man he recognized as the prime minister, Sir Uriel Reginald. 

He attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, melting back against the wall and taking another sip of champagne.

“—the court is getting quite anxious to know what the prince will do,” Sir Uriel was saying. 

“Whatever do you mean?” the queen asked, looking calm and unruffled by the question. 

“Come now, Your Majesty,” he said, grinning. His teeth were very white and gleamed in the low light. “You're aware of how invested we are in the prince’s decision about taking the crown.” 

The queen’s fingers went white around the stem of her champagne flute.

“Let me assure you, I haven't forgotten,” she said, in a voice so low Sam barely heard it over the murmurs of the party. “Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I must greet our other guests.” With that, she strode off into the crowd. 

Sam frowned over the rim of his own flute as he wandered back to Gabriella, who was busy unwrapping a fifth sweet. 

“Took you long enough,” she said casually. “Hear anything interesting?”

“What?” Sam asked, pulse ratcheting up. Had she seen him eavesdropping? He took a sip of champagne for his suddenly dry mouth.

“There's always some interesting family gossip floating around,” she said, focus still on her candy. “And by family I mean fourth or fifth cousins twice removed that I've barely ever seen.” She sniffed derisively. “There aren't even any kids around. It's _totally_ boring.” 

“Well, I bet there are _some_ interesting people here,” Sam said, seizing the opening. He pointed across the room. “I just saw your mother talking to the prime minister.”  

Gabriella flicked a bored gaze in that direction. “Cousin Uriel?” She rolled her eyes. “He's _really_ boring, and _so_ serious. I wouldn't want to talk to him.”  

“The prime minister is your cousin?” Sam asked, surprised.  

“Technically a second cousin,” she said, visibly uninterested in what was—to her—old news. “But yes.” 

Abruptly the low chatter filling the room ceased. Sam looked up and found everyone facing the room’s double-door entrance.  

Prince Castiel had entered and was looking around the crowd with an eerily blank expression. Sam noticed how the prince dropped his hands and self-consciously tugged down his suit cuffs, the only sign that he was nervous.  

From behind the prince, the same guard that had been escorting him earlier huffed into the room, face red. 

“Presenting His Royal Highness, Prince Castiel,” the guard loudly announced. The way he righteously straightened his doublet and shot a thinly veiled look at the prince suggested that the introduction should have come before the entrance, but the prince had—for whatever reason—decided to do it his way.  

The room filled with low chatter again, but this time it had a vicious, eager edge that reminded Sam of middle school. 

He looked back to the prince, who was accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter. With a quiet nod of thanks, he resumed his scan of the room—and again locked eyes with Sam.  

After getting over his initial startlement at being caught staring, Sam couldn't think of anything to do but smile ruefully— _see, here we are, sharing this awkward moment again_ —and raise his glass in acknowledgement. 

To his shock, the prince smiled back—small and closed-mouthed, but definitely a smile—and made a beeline towards Sam, politely excusing himself as other people tried to grab his arm.  

“Seems like your brother's coming to join us,” Sam began, only to find Gabriella was already looking at him. He didn't know what to make of her scrutiny. 

After a moment she shrugged and took another gingerbread man.  

“He's not very fun to talk to either,” she muttered, and bit off the head of the cookie with surprising viciousness.

Sam was a little surprised. Where had the sudden vitriol come from?  

“Hello again, Mr. Tran. Gabby,” he said, trying to catch her eye. She shoved another bite of cookie in her mouth. 

“Hello _Cas,_ ” she said pointedly, muffled through the cookie crumbs. 

The prince’s face twitched in minute disappointment and then he visibly rallied, pulling a politely bland expression over his features. It was a fascinating process to watch, Sam thought. 

“Are you having a good time, Mr. Tran?” Prince Castiel asked, left to either stand awkwardly in front of where Sam and Gabriella were seated or shove himself onto Sam’s overstuffed armchair, which wasn’t really an option.  

“Yes, it's been interesting for sure,” Sam said, fingers suddenly slipping against the condensation on his champagne flute. He leaned forward to put it on the table—and it occurred to him that he was _leaving the prince standing_. Should he offer the prince his seat? Is that something you had to do?   

He leaned back, fully prepared to jump up—and found the prince looking at him hesitantly. 

So that was probably a yes, he needed to give up his seat for royalty. 

Already half out of his seat, Sam said, "I—sorry, uh, would you like—" He gestured at the chair. 

"What? No, no, please—you don't have to do that. In fact, I came to apologize to _you_ ," the prince said. 

“For what?” Sam was genuinely bewildered, and instantly on guard. Had he slipped up? Was he about to be discovered? Was the prince apologizing in advance for having to throw him in jail? 

“For the airport,” the prince said. “And stealing the taxi from you. I didn't properly apologize earlier for that, so. Please accept my apologies.”  

“Sure, yeah,” Sam said. “No harm done.” 

“I’m sure you noticed the crowd of reporters waiting outside,” Prince Castiel said with a wry smile. “I was trying to avoid them.”  

A booming voice saved Sam from having to answer. 

“Ah, dearest cousin Cassie!”  

The prince’s eyes widened with surprise and he stumbled forward as he was heartily clapped on the back.  

“I feel like it’s been ages. Doesn’t it feel like it’s been forever?” the man asked.  

Standing right next to the prince he was obviously a little taller than Castiel, but his extra girth gave him the impression of being more squat than he actually was. He was also a fair bit older than either Sam or the prince—in his fifties at least. 

His white hair was thinning at the top and he had quite a tan compared to the rest of the winter-bound Aldovians.  

There was something very unpleasant about the smile on his face and the look in his eyes. Like a cat smiling at a mouse that didn't know it was trapped yet.

“Zachariah,” Castiel said. His tone was perfectly neutral. “How good to see you.”

“And of course, Gabby, my _other_ dearest cousin,” Zachariah said, reaching past Castiel to ruffle Gabriella’s hair. She leaned back as far as she could in her chair, looking very annoyed.   

“I prefer Gabriella,” she said. 

Zachariah drew his hand back, chuckling, and shook a playful finger at her. 

“Growing up too fast. I remember little Gabby like it was yesterday. And who's this?” he asked, turning his gaze on Sam. Even though his tone was as jovial as the stereotypical friendly uncle, his gaze was cold and calculating. Sam was reminded of Naomi’s measuring glance, and similarly had the feeling he had come up short in Zachariah’s estimation.  

The prince supplied an answer, since Gabriella was still only sitting, frowning. “This is Gabriella’s new tutor, Mr. Kevin Tran. Mr. Tran, this is our cousin, Duke Zachariah Milton.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said, standing to offer his hand. The duke’s grip was surprisingly firm.

“And I you, Mr. Tran,” he said, with the slightest, incredulous emphasis on the word ‘Tran’.  

Or maybe that was just Sam’s overly cautious imagination. 

“He's in parliament too, just like Cousin Uriel,” Gabriella said suddenly. “Hello, Uriel.” 

The man in question had appeared behind the prince, on his other side. Gabriella’s greeting alerted the prince to Uriel’s presence, keeping him from startling her brother like Zachariah had. 

If that had even been his intention, Sam thought, suddenly doubtful. The prime minister was incredibly hard to read. Unlike Zachariah, Uriel’s resting face wasn't cold or calculating. It was simply smooth, like a stone wall. 

“Hello, Gabriella,” he said in his smooth baritone. “Zachariah. And Castiel.” He clasped a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “It is _so_ good to see you back. It's been too long.” 

“Yes,” Castiel said, casting an unreadable look at Gabriella. “It has. Good to see you, Uriel. This is Gabriella's new tutor, Mr. Kevin Tran.” He gestured in Sam’s direction. 

“Pleasure,” Uriel said, raising his champagne glass in acknowledgement. Sam turned his aborted offer of a hand shake into a jerky grasp at his own flute on the table, and raised it in return. The prime minister eyed Sam’s fumbling dispassionately and turned right back to Castiel. 

Now flanked by both Zachariah and Uriel, Castiel’s eyes darted back and forth between the two. He took a sip of champagne, cleared his throat, and calmly asked, “So, how have you been?” 

“Oh, just peachy,” Zachariah said, smiling with all his teeth.  

“We're all very eager to hear what your decision will be,” Uriel cut in. The silence that followed was loaded with the weight of their expectant stares.  

“Well, you'll all find out at the Christmas ball,” Castiel said, perfectly polite, though the skin around his eyes had gone tight.  

“Zachariah! I didn't see you arrive,” the queen said, neatly slotting herself into their small group with a speed that suggested she had hurried over. “How nice to see you.” 

“Your Majesty,” Zachariah said, taking her hand and bowing over it. “You look lovely. And may I just say, my condolences. I'm sure this can't be an easy time for you.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed Gabriella stiffen at the reminder of her father’s death. Zachariah’s remark seemed somewhat misplaced, if not callous.  

The queen took it in good grace, inclining her head. “Thank you,” she said as he unbent.  

“If you'll excuse me,” the prince said, backing up a step. “I should go say hello to our other guests. After all, as you said, it's been a while.” 

With a twist, he freed himself from his cousins’ trap and vanished off into the crowd.  

“Which reminds me, you simply must come see Raphael,” the queen said to Zachariah, placing a gentle hand on his arm. She looked carefully at Uriel. “If you'll excuse me.” 

“Your Majesty,” he said, raising his glass in silent acceptance.  

When they had gone, Uriel cast another dismissive glance Sam’s way before turning to Gabriella. 

“Enjoy the party, Your Highness,” he said. “Mr. Tran.” 

With a perfectly cool smile, he left them. Sam stared off into the crowd, trying to process everything that had just happened. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Gabriella said abruptly, and he realized she had been quiet since Zachariah had brought up the king's death. When he turned, she was looking down at her fingernails and picking at the cuticles.  

“I don't like them,” she said in a subdued voice.  

“Are they your close family?” he asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. 

Gabriella gave him a strange look. 

“Yes,” she said. “They're my father's cousins. In fact, Cousin Zachariah is next in line for the crown, after my brother.” 

That wasn’t what he’d meant, but—“Not after you?” he asked. 

Gabriella rolled her eyes harder than he’d ever seen her roll them before.

“Male bloodline,” she said, full of venom. “It’s _totally_ unfair.” 

“Absolutely,” he said fervently, his small-r republican anger at the idea making him momentarily forget how traditional monarchies tended to work. 

She shoved another cookie in her mouth, chewing viciously. Her face was stormy. 

Having no idea how to rescue the conversation, Sam drained his glass. He figured he deserved it. 

“I'll be right back,” he said, spotting a tray of canapes across the room. Taking his empty glass, he tracked down something that looked like a crepe piled with some sort of vegetable. 

Anything was better than the meat jelly. 

Bright colors bustling along the side of the room caught his eye. It was the prince’s guard, looking extremely harried. He drew the queen aside and said something to her, and she glanced around the room in such a casual way she was clearly trying not to attract attention. 

Sam realized what was wrong with the picture: the prince wasn't anywhere to be found. He had slipped out of the room.  

For the rest of the party, Sam glanced around occasionally for the prince, but he never reappeared. 

\-- 

_Missed call from Dean, 12/21/17 03:14 AM_

_(1) new voicemail_  

\-- 

Kevin Tran was twenty two years old and from Neighbor, Michigan. He had a bachelor's from Princeton, and was working on a master's in education from Yale. He was a concert cellist, spoke five languages, and probably rescued puppies from trees in his spare time.  

He was also, judging by the tasteful picture on his professional profile, absolutely, irrevocably, and undeniably Asian.  

After a few incredibly tense hours in the middle of the night, and with a lot of help from Ruby and a “friend” whose name Sam never learned, there were _two_ Kevin Trans that showed up in a simple online search. 

_“Are you kidding?” Ruby had said gleefully, when Sam called at midnight Aldovian time. “Absolutely I will help. This is possibly the greatest thing I will ever accomplish, and that includes when I catfished Crowley.”_  

_“You WHAT,” he heard Crowley squawk from somewhere on Ruby's side._  

_“I'll call you back in a few minutes,” Ruby had continued cheerfully before the line abruptly went dead in the middle of Crowley's “You BIT—”._  

The new one, obviously, was Sam, who had frantically given Ruby more personal information than was probably wise in his panic to cover up this very obvious evidence that he was a lying son of a bitch. 

Kevin Tran the Second had an average if sanitized online footprint, followed the requisite slew of celebrities, and had his own professional headshot attached to a (slightly less) respectable resume.  

_“Come on, Sam,” Ruby had wheedled. “Every single person alive has at least one unflattering picture of themselves online. Just send me one, I know you have several good options to choose from, and I swear on my grandma I won't save it to use against you later.”_  

_“Your grandma is dead,” Sam said._  

_“Huh. Why so she is,” Ruby said cheerily. “Now just sack up and send me that picture.”_  

None of it would stand up to close scrutiny, but it was sufficient for a simple search. Which was all Sam had been aiming for.

_“This is SO ILLEGAL,” he’d moaned as he watched his new Facebook populate with pictures and posts._  

_“Mm, technically you're not actually stealing his identity,” Ruby said. “This is all your info—you're not claiming to be Kevin Tran, Super Genius and Eagle Scout. You're just using his name—and he's not the only Kevin Tran in the world. It's basically legal!”_  

_“But I'm definitely pretending to be him here,” he hissed, keeping his voice down even though it was the middle of the night and he was all alone in his huge room._  

_“Oh yeah, that's super illegal,” Ruby said, blasé as anything. “I meant that this online stuff is fine because it definitely pales in comparison to actual impersonation, which you are doing, to the faces of the royal family of an entire country. Are you SURE you don't want to have gone to Harvard?” she added into the silence as Sam worked his way through another panicked, oh-god-what-am-I-doing anxiety spasm._  

By the time they wrapped up, around three in the morning, Sam was exhausted by the emotional toll of his espionage and the knowledge that he owed Ruby the world's largest favor. When he saw Dean's name light up his phone screen, the thought of explaining what was happening _again_ simultaneously made his stomach churn and his eyes close in exhaustion. He couldn't do it.  

With a twinge of guilt he let Dean go to voicemail as he settled down and tried to get some sleep.  

The last thought he had, circling muzzily in his head as his tired brain gratefully shut off, was that he'd call him back later. 

\-- 

The first thought Sam had upon waking up a paltry four hours later was that the beds in the palace were a massive improvement over the hotel's. 

The second thought was that he still had no idea what a lesson plan was.

This resulted in a fresh bout of high-grade anxiety that followed him all the way through getting ready for the morning in the elaborate and confusing palace bathroom, and through the soft knock on his door that resulted in the delivery of a delicate china cup of coffee and a selection of flaky pastries.  

Sam shredded a croissant to bits as he tried to focus on the task ahead.

_Pretend to teach. Don't get caught. Don't screw up,_ he chanted in his head, gathering up his laptop and notebook. The study-turned-classroom had seemed pretty well-stocked, but it didn't hurt to have the sense of familiarity his own things provided.   

By the time he found his way back to the study, he was pretty confident in his plan for the day. 

Gabriella was already there, sitting innocently on one side of the large table positioned closest to the classroom supplies. 

“Good morning, Sam,” she said politely. Her hands were delicately clasped on the table in front of her. A red velvet bow was tied just so in her honey blonde curls. She looked like the perfect picture of a well-behaved princess. 

Immediately, Sam was suspicious. He knew that angelic look because Dean had worn it often, just before Sam had found glue on his water bottle or all his music replaced with Swiss yodeling. In turn, _Sam_ had perfected his own version of the who-me? look to use against his brother.   

“Good morning,” he said, moving slowly around the table.  

Gabriella stayed silent, watching him closely. A little _too_ closely.

The question was, what had she done? There was nothing on the table, or on the floor. Maybe his chair?

Sam tried to be casual as he inspected the chair before he pulled it out, just in case super glue was waiting for him on the chair back. Nothing was there. 

“Well? Are you going to sit down?” Gabriella finally said, clearly impatient to see the results of...whatever it was she had done. 

 _Aha._ Sam looked down at the chair, which seemed a little more plush than normal. 

“I will, just have to fix the chair first,” he said breezily, and lifted the padded seat to remove the fully inflated whoopee cushion from underneath it.  

“How’d that get there?” he asked with mock surprise, setting it on the table. Gabriella’s face reflected her surprise, along with a fair bit of disappointment. 

“I...don’t know,” she managed to answer, looking a little lost. 

They both looked at the cushion. 

Sam shrugged. “Shame to waste it,” he said, and smacked the cushion with his fist. Gabriella jumped as it let out a horrific _pbbbbfffftttt_ and, taken off guard, started giggling. Sam couldn’t help joining in.  

Getting herself under control, Gabriella asked, “How did you know?” 

“I have an older brother too,” Sam said by way of explanation. “And we pranked each other all the time. I'll teach you some of our greatest hits- as long as you promise not to use them against me.” 

Gabriella gave him a reluctantly impressed look.

“Alright, deal,” she said. “So what are we doing today?” 

“Well,” Sam said slowly, “ I'm not exactly sure what you were working on before, so I figured we'd start off easy today. You pick: we can start with grammar, algebra, or a brief history of the electoral college in the United States.” 

Gabriella's face, which had started off disgusted and gotten worse as the list went on, was suddenly and hilariously surprised. 

“What?” she asked, clearly thrown. 

“I'm just kidding,” Sam said. “Unless you're interested! We could cover it for a history lesson.”  

“I— _no_ ,” she said, trying to regain her footing. “I don't want to study _your_ stupid country. I've got one of my own.”  

“That's fair,” he said. His gaze had snagged on a row of primary colored workbooks on a low shelf behind Gabriella. He moved over to them and took a brief look, grabbing the first English language one he saw. 

“Grammar it is!” he said, turning around and lifting the workbook like a trophy. It made a _thwop_ sound as the soft cover bent.

“ _Ugh,_ do we _have_ to?” Gabriella asked, sighing gustily up at the ceiling. 

“Yes,” Sam said firmly. “Cheer up. It won't be bad!” 

\-- 

It was, in fact, quite bad. 

Aside from stubbornly resisting any of Sam's directions, Gabriella revealed herself to be frighteningly smart. Almost everything they did she picked up quickly and was soon bored with. 

When she said for the thousandth time, “I don't understand why I have to waste so much time on all this stuff. It's so _boring_ —”  

Sam finally replied, “I'm sure your brother went through all of this, just like you are. It's important that you get a good education, for your country.”  

“He's _so old_ ,” cried Gabriella. “I bet they didn't even _have_ algebra when he was twelve!” 

 Sam shrugged. “He's not that much older than my brother, Dean. And I _know_ Dean learned algebra, because I'm the one who helped him actually pass that class.”

 “How old are _you_?” Gabriella asked, pinning him with a slightly more wide-eyed version of her brother's piercing stare.

“Twenty three,” Sam said. 

“Maybe if you cut your hair you'd look older,” Gabriella said, with the casual disregard of a child.  

He got enough about his hair from Dean, thank you very much. Time to head this off at the pass.

“Where is your brother, anyway?” he asked. “What does he do all day?” 

Gabriella rolled her eyes up to the ceiling as she pushed her chair back and forth. 

“Everyone is so interested in him,” she complained to the chandeliers. “When he's so _boring_. He's probably in his room or getting yelled at by our mom. Or in the gym.”  

“There's a gym here?” Sam asked, interest piqued for several reasons. 

“Ugh, of _course_ you'd be the type of person who likes the _gym_ ,” she said, tilting her head even further back with a groan. Just as quickly she snapped it back to look at him. 

“I could show you where it is,” she said. 

“You're just trying to get out of the rest of your lessons.” 

“Am not.” A poorly concealed lie. “It could be the physical fitness part.” 

“Uh huh,” Sam said, unimpressed. Unfortunately Gabriella interpreted his response differently. 

“I can do fitness stuff too,” she said viciously, surprising Sam with her ferocity. “I'm not an _invalid_. I can do whatever I _want_.”  

“I know!” Sam said hastily, hands up in placation. “I know you can. That's not what I meant. Honest. Sorry.” 

She held her glare for a moment longer, but Sam continued giving his most earnest expression, the one Dean called his “puppy dog eyes”.  

“Alright,” she sniffed, finally subsiding. “Let's go, I can show you where it is.”  

\-- 

The walk to the gym was long and confusing—but Sam had the brilliant idea of asking Gabriella for a tour as they went.  

Of course, it wasn’t exactly a useful tour. It was mostly “This is a huge room that no one uses,” followed by “These are the stairs to the dungeons—kidding. Or am I?”, and a whole host of “I don’t know why we have this statue but it’s _so_ ugly it’s funny, isn’t it?”  

But it got Gabriella talking. The more Sam joked around with her, the more her smiles became brighter and more sincere. She really _was_ a funny kid, Sam thought. _Just bored out of her mind here in the castle._  

Eventually they came upon a set of double doors that, to Sam, looked just like any of the many pairs of double doors they had already passed. 

As if she was reading Sam’s mind, Gabriella said, “I always remember where the gym is, because of the funny painting next to it. I think it looks like he has a lumpy cottage cheese face.” 

It was a very apt description.  

“Anyway, here we are,” Gabriella said, and pushed open one of the doors. 

The gym was clearly one of those “huge room that no one uses” that had been converted. The ceilings were high and the walls were covered with soundproofing material. Instead of chandeliers the overhead lights were sensible and sturdy.  

One half of the room was covered with the spongy black floor common in most gyms Sam had been in, and the other half of the room was covered in polished wood. 

 The prince—and his omnipresent guard, standing at attention against the wall—were on that half of the room, standing by a folding table covered with a dark cloth. He had something in his hand that glinted under the lights. After a moment he raised his other hand in a small wave. 

Gabriella, at Sam’s side, rolled her eyes.

“Alright, well, come on, don’t just stand there gawking,” she muttered, and Sam sighed inwardly as he felt all the camaraderie between them vanish. He followed Gabriella across the gym to the prince.  

“Hello Gabby, Mr. Tran,” Prince Castiel greeted them, putting down what he was holding on the table.  

“Your Highness,” Sam said in acknowledgement. Gabriella said nothing, and something in the prince seemed to dim. 

Glancing uncertainly between them, Prince Castiel asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in lessons now?” 

“This _is_ the lesson, we're doing physical fitness,” she huffed, wheeling her chair back and forth. “But also, you should call him Sam.”  

Gabriella looked directly at Sam as she continued. “Kevin Tran was his father, who he didn't like. He goes by his middle name, Sam.” 

“Unofficially,” Sam managed to add. Something about her stare was very unnerving. 

“Sam, then,” Prince Castiel said. “And since we're talking about names—please don't stand on ceremony. That's all Naomi's thing, and I've told her many times to just leave it be. I would much rather you just call me Castiel.” 

“Oh—uh, thanks, Castiel,” Sam said, trying it out. It felt strange on his tongue, but it must have sounded fine, because the prince— _Castiel_ —looked pleased. 

“I'm good with Your Highness, thanks,” Gabriella said loudly.  

“Gabby,” Castiel sighed, but the little smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away. 

She just glared. Whatever animosity had cropped up last night clearly hadn't gone away. 

“What are you doing?” Sam asked to fill the awkward pause. He _was_ curious—the prince had a row of very shiny (and probably very sharp) knives carefully lined up on the table. Two on the end were strangely curved and had multiple, smaller blades sticking out of them. The wall across from him was lined with sheets of plywood, paper targets layered on top. The wall was pockmarked with holes and gashes. 

“Knife throwing,” Castiel replied, sounding excited. It was the first time Sam had seen him shed his layer of princely reservation. It made him seem younger, more carefree. “It's something I picked up while I was—” 

“Off having fun anywhere that wasn’t here,” Gabriella said, cutting in viciously. “‘Cause being here is just _so awful_ that no one wants to do it.”  

“I—Gabby—” The prince’s face creased with hurt. 

“I'm sure that's not true,” Sam said unthinkingly.  

“Of _course_ you'd take his side,” she said, hair whipping around as she turned her glare on him. “ _Everyone_ does.”  

“Gabby, Mr. Tran—uh, Sam—isn’t taking any sides,” Castiel said, correcting himself hastily. 

“ _Stop calling me Gabby_ ,” she snapped, glowering in the sudden, uncomfortable silence. “I'm going to actually do physical activity now. For my _lesson_.” Her voice was still frosty as she jerked her chair around.   

“And I _don't_ need help!” she yelled as she wheeled toward the far wall of the gym, where there were medicine balls and weights in neat racks, along with bungee cords and mats. Sam and the prince watched as she picked out a red bungee cord. 

“Is she okay?” Sam asked in a low voice. “She seems to be in...well...not the greatest mood.” 

_Understatement of the century. Stellar observational work, Sam. Star reporting work._

Castiel blew out a small breath and suddenly seemed much older and more tired. His shoulders drooped and if it was at all possible, the lines at the sides of his eyes deepened.  

“It's nothing to do with you, I promise. It’s been a rough year for her and I'm afraid I haven't helped,” he said, looking across the gym at his sister.  

“Come on,” Sam said. “I know a thing or two about mean older brothers, and they don't look a thing like you.” 

Castiel smiled wearily. “That's very kind of you, but it's not the whole story.” Tone strengthening and his entire posture straightening, he said, “Now, there are a few ways that you can use throwing knives...” 

Clearly the subject was closed. For now _,_ Sam thought, and paid careful attention to the right way to chuck a lethal weapon at the wall.  

It seemed the primary lesson was “Don’t be an idiot”. This was followed by some tips about proper stance that Castiel gave while scrutinizing Sam’s form.

“Try putting more weight on your back foot,” he said, watching him closely. 

Sam, feeling wrong-footed from the close attention, tried his best to follow the prince’s instructions. His first attempts were absolutely awful but, after a few demonstrations from Castiel, his aim improved and he actually got several daggers to stick into the wall. 

He didn’t even try to throw the weirdly shaped ones (“Kpingas,” the prince supplied), but Castiel kindly obliged his request to see how it worked.  

Picking one up, the prince stood across from the wall and took a minute to analyze the distance and fix his aim. 

Intense stares must run in the family, Sam thought, because every time Castiel had thrown a knife the change in his concentration had been astounding. This was no different, his eyes narrowed and fixed straight ahead.  

It wasn’t as if Sam thought he looked particularly uncoordinated or incompetent while throwing the knives—but he was positive he looked like a flailing mess compared to the prince.  

Castiel raised his arms over his head and hurled the knife at the wall in one fluid motion. It lodged in the center of one of the targets and hung there, quivering slightly. 

“Wow,” Sam said, through a mouth gone suddenly dry.  

When Castiel turned back around he had lost all his intensity. He quirked one shoulder up and said, “Yes, well. Just practice, that’s all. Are you sure you don’t want to try?” 

It _had_ looked really cool.   

“Okay,” Sam said, capitulating. “Why not?” 

The prince brought him the second knife from the table, their fingers brushing as he passed the handle to Sam.  

“This is a lot lighter than I thought,” Sam said. 

Castiel hummed in agreement, taking a short step back.  

“Okay, go ahead and set up,” he said, looking at Sam the same way he had looked at the targets. 

All the tips he’d been given immediately flew out of Sam’s brain. 

“Uh—“ He shifted his stance into what he thought felt right, and raised his arms over his head. He waited for the prince’s verdict.  

“Hm.” Castiel stepped back in. “Bend your knees a little, and I think—“ He raised a hand as if he was going to correct something in Sam’s posture. 

“Okay, I’m _done now,_ it’s time to _go,_ ” Gabriella hollered across the room. Startled, Sam backed up and accidentally stepped on Castiel’s foot. They sprang apart, Sam hastily apologizing.  

“No, no, nothing to worry about,” Castiel said. “Well. Thank—” 

“Thanks for letting me try it out,” Sam said, speaking at the same time. They both paused again.  

“ _SAM_! Let’s GO!”   

Gabriella had wheeled to the doors, and was waiting impatiently, arms crossed. When she saw Sam looking her way she turned and rolled out of the gym.  

“I'll see you around,” Castiel said, with a helpless, _what-can-you-do?_ shrug.  

“See you,” Sam said, giving the world's dorkiest half-wave before turning tail and following Gabriella out of the gym. 

\-- 

Unfortunately, whatever progress Sam had made with Gabriella that morning had been completely erased. The final few hours of the day were nearly unbearable, and left Sam almost wishing he could just confess everything to Naomi and be kicked out of the country. Anything to not have to do this all over again tomorrow.  

Back in his room, Sam rolled his neck from side to side, trying desperately to get rid of some of the day's tension. Stealing someone's identity really took its toll on a person. Add in the world's most recalcitrant princess and he'd be surprised to leave Aldovia without a stress ulcer. 

He tried to keep reminding himself not to take Gabriella’s vitriol personally, and remember what Castiel had alluded to earlier about some sort of family tension.  

Speaking of family tension—now that lessons were (thankfully) over for the day, Sam figured it was time to continue his investigation. The sooner he had enough to satisfy Lucifer, the sooner he could leave. 

Maybe if he could get the prince's decision before his final announcement at the Christmas Ball, that'd be enough of a scoop that he could leave and go back to New York and hopefully not get extradited back to Aldovia for massive fraud.  

But first, he'd have to _find_ the prince.   

When he’d arrived back at his room, just a few minutes ago, there hadn't been a guard posted outside of the prince's door—meaning that Sam would have to explore, now without Gabriella’s guidance, and hope he got lucky.  

_At least now_ , Sam mused, carefully locking his room behind him as he left, _I have a valid reason for being in the palace._

Phone in hand, he confidently started off towards one of two places he was certain he could navigate to: the gym, with its ugly spoiled-milk-face painting.  

But when he got there, the lights were off and no one was around.

So Sam turned around and went to the only other place he knew he could find on his first try: the study. He had a sinking feeling that would also be a dead end, but—might as well eliminate all possibilities. 

Sure enough, the only thing breathing in the study was Alfie the fish, who wobbled to the front of his bowl and _blooped_ inquiringly. Sam dropped a single pellet of food in the water and watched the goldfish suck it up while he considered where to head next. 

Since he was already on the first floor, it made sense to work his way through the rooms down here and then move back up.  

“Too bad there’s no map,” Sam said to Alfie.  

Alfie, sensing there were no more treats incoming, swam lazily away. 

\--

What was odd about the palace, Sam reflected three rooms and a hall later, was that he hadn't seen a single portrait of the late King Charles anywhere.  

In fact, he hadn't really seen any family portraiture—even the ugly cheese-face man from the gym seemed like just the flight of fancy of an artist who was perhaps visually impaired, and not likely anyone of royal blood. 

 _That has to be weird,_ Sam thought. Not that he knew much about royalty personally, but his impression of places like Buckingham and Versailles was that you were undoubtedly due to find halls full of portraits of royal rulers going back generations.   

Or maybe he just hadn't found that hall yet. After all, it was still early in his search.  

He wandered down another large passageway, this one lined with floor-to-ceiling windows all the way down. It looked out onto a beautiful mountain vista, white snow sparkling everywhere in the early, setting sun.  

He paused for a second and just _looked_.   

Outside of the surreality of his situation, it really _was_ beautiful and very peaceful. A perfect winter wonderland, no decorations required. 

It was then that Sam heard the faint sounds of music, coming from somewhere further down the passageway. It was some sort of piano melody, quiet and sad. 

Might as well. Sam headed in the direction of the music, cutting through the shafts of sunlight that stretched across the floor.  

It was coming from a room tucked around the corner. The room had large doors that slid to the side instead of opening in or out and they were partially open, music floating out from inside.  

Suddenly hesitant that he would run into someone he _definitely_ didn't want to talk to (Naomi, for instance), he crept closer as quietly as he could. He'd just peek inside first, see if it was worth his time to go in.   

Almost holding his breath, Sam peeked around the door. 

The room was much larger inside than it appeared outside. The parquet floor continued on in a more elaborate pattern than in the hallway, something that was slightly dizzying.  

A piano was set at a jaunty angle in one of the far corners, facing into the room. Prince Castiel sat behind it, looking down at the keys.  

Huh. Sam hadn't known he played the piano. Maybe this would help convince Lucifer that the prince wasn’t anything like he was portrayed in the news—Sam still felt bad that he had told Lucifer about the airport.  

He took out his phone, intending to make a quick note about it for later. 

A throat being cleared very quietly was his only warning before the prince's guard, standing to the right of the door and with a perfect view of Sam's face, announced, “Mr. Kevin Tran, Your Highness.”  

Castiel's head jerked up in surprise as Sam choked on his tongue. 

“I am so sorry, Your Highness,” Sam gasped, gripping his phone so tight he was surprised it didn't crack. 

“Sam, we talked about this,” Castiel said, his eyes faintly amused. “It's just Castiel. Please, come in.”  

“Right, sorry, Castiel,” Sam said, stepping into the room and casting a hasty glance back at the guard. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I just—well, I was in the hallway and I heard your playing. It sounded—really good.” 

Castiel looked down at the keys once more.  

“Thank you,” he said. “It's, well, it's calming for me. There're only so many knives I can throw, after all.” He smiled thinly.  

“I understand that feeling,” Sam said. He crossed the room, to the piano. “I bet it's not easy right now.” 

“You have no idea,” Castiel said. He sighed and absentmindedly played a short string of notes with his right hand.  

“I'm sorry, I'm being a terrible host,” he said, hitting one last key as if to punctuate the end of his self-reflection. 

“No, that's okay,” Sam said quickly, raising his hands. “Don't worry about me. Seems like we were both trying to take a break.” He grinned conspiratorially. Castiel winced in return. 

“I am sorry for Gabriella,” Castiel said, tugging at the cuffs of his sweater. “I know she can be...difficult. But she's my sister,” he said, looking at Sam seriously. The unspoken message came through loud and clear: _she's my sister and I love her and I'd do anything for her up to and including chopping off your head_ (granted, Sam may have been extrapolating that last bit).  

“Trust me, I understand,” Sam said, leaning against the piano and shoving his hands in his pockets. “My older brother—” His breath hitched and he trailed off, remembering Dean's voicemail waiting patiently on his phone.  

“Your older brother?” Castiel prompted.  

“Yeah, sorry. I just remembered that he called me last night—must have forgotten the time change,” Sam explained. “I should call him back soon. This is the first Christmas I've spent away from home. I think he's lonely, but don't tell him I said that.” He couldn't help smiling to himself, imagining Dean's over-the-top reaction to that statement.  

“Is the rest of your family not home for Christmas?” Castiel asked. 

“Well, my uncle Bobby will probably show up for after dinner whiskeys, but there's no one else. Just me and Dean. My parents are both gone.”  

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Castiel said, his blue eyes wide with sincerity.  

“It's okay,” Sam said, hitching one shoulder up. “It was a long time ago.”

Castiel looked off to the side, fiddling with his sleeve again. “Still, it must be especially tough around the holidays.”  

“Yeah. You're not wrong,” Sam said. “But we found little things that help. My mom was famous for her apple pie recipe. We started making it together every Christmas, so there's always a little part of her that's there with us.”  

“That sounds wonderful.” Castiel was still looking everywhere but at Sam. “My father didn't bake. But, he taught me how to play,” he said, gesturing at the piano. “So. I suppose that's something.”  

“Well, he must have been a good teacher,” Sam said. “It sounded beautiful.” 

Castiel huffed a short laugh. “Thank you,” was all he said. After the space of a breath Castiel looked at Sam again, visibly trying to portray polite good cheer. 

“So how have you enjoyed Aldovia so far? Here, please, sit,” he added, shifting over on the piano bench.  

Sam sat gingerly, casting another nervous glance at the guard as he did so. He wasn't sure how much of the prince's personal space was considered off-limits. 

Castiel noticed his glance and said, a touch darkly, “Don’t worry about him.” 

“Oh, no, I wasn't—” Sam started, and then cut himself off. In a lower voice, he said, “Uh—does he follow you everywhere?” 

The prince, for just a second, looked very frustrated before he managed to pack it away wherever he stored the rest of his emotions.  

“Yes,” he answered back, at the same low volume. “According to my mother, it's for my protection.” 

“Protection? Are you in danger because you're the future king?” Sam asked, fairly surprised. Did Aldovia have powerful enemies?  

Castiel looked at him sideways. “I haven't said that that's what I'm going to do yet.” 

“But Christmas is only a few days away.” 

“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten,” the prince muttered. 

After a beat of uncomfortable silence, Sam said, “Right. Of course you haven’t. I didn’t mean to—sorry. I didn’t mean to push.”

“No, it’s alright. I don’t blame you.” Taking a deep breath, the prince bravely rallied once more.  

If that was the type of self-discipline it took to be a public figure, Sam was glad he wasn’t one. 

“I saw online that you play the cello?” Castiel asked, smiling tentatively. It sat awkwardly on his face, like it was a little rusty. “If you want, you could play here sometime.” 

“You looked me up?” Sam asked, suddenly going cold.  

The prince, astoundingly, broke eye contact and glanced away, not looking at all like his next words were going to be ‘I did, and I know you're a fake—off with his head’. 

“Yes, well,” he said, voice somehow getting even deeper, “I just...wanted to make sure my sister was going to be well taken care of.” 

Shifting to face Castiel, Sam said, “I promise, she will be. Honestly, she should probably be teaching me. I've never met a smarter kid.” 

From the way Castiel looked down at the piano keys Sam could tell he was quietly pleased.  

‘I've always thought so,” the prince said. “But yes. If you ever want to, please feel free to use anything in here.” He gestured towards the far corner of the room, towards a large wooden instrument that Sam assumed was a cello.

“Well—that's, uh, very kind of you,” he said, “but I'm gonna have to disappoint you. That must have been a different Kevin Tran—I can't play the cello. Can't even carry a tune.”  

Of _course_ Castiel found the other Kevin Tran interesting. For some reason this peeved Sam more than the fact that he was skating dangerously close to being discovered.  

Castiel seemed like he was going to say something (maybe along the lines of ‘there was only one Kevin Tran when I searched yesterday, care to explain yourself, you fraud?’) when the guard cleared his throat once more and announced loudly, “Naomi, Your Highness.” 

Castiel immediately straightened, pulling away from Sam and standing as Naomi walked into the room. When she saw Sam her mouth tightened. 

“Your Highness,” she said, giving another of her precise bows. Reluctantly, she added, “And Mr. Tran,” acknowledging Sam’s presence with a tilt of her head. Turning her attention back to Castiel, she said, “The queen wished to remind you of the family dinner tonight, and ensure you were ready in the west wing lounge by 6 o’clock sharp.” 

“Yes, thank you, Naomi,” Castiel said wearily. Glancing at Sam, he said, “Do you know where the west wing lounge is? I can show you once we’re ready—he will be attending, of course, as my guest,” he added, when it looked like Naomi was getting ready to interject.  

She settled for glowering as she replied, “Of course, Your Highness.” She sketched another bow, and quickly left the room.  

“I hope you don’t mind, Sam,” Castiel said after Naomi’s exit. “You’ll be doing me—and Gabriella, of course,” he added hastily, “—a huge favor. It’ll be nice to have someone there who isn’t a royal.” 

“No, of course not,” Sam said. “Thanks for, uh, inviting me.” 

Castiel simply smiled and gestured for Sam to leave the room ahead of him. The guard trailed behind them both. 

Compared to Gabriella’s palace tour, Castiel’s tour on the way back to their rooms was much more informative, but not nearly as entertaining. It did help him flesh out his mental map, though. Someday, maybe, he’d be able to find his way around. 

Back in his room, Sam was eyeing his clothes in despair when he suddenly remembered Dean’s voicemail. 

He tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he moved shirts and pants around. 

_Hey Sam_ ,

_Can you even access your voicemail in Wheretheheckistan?_

_Yeah, yeah, don't bitch at me, I know it's Aldovia._

_Anyway, I just wanted to call and, I don't know, see if you had been mistaken for a princess by anyone yet. Your hair's getting a little long there, Rapunzel._

_Okay, cool. Uh, hope you're alive, and, uh, yeah. That's it. Talk to you after you've been rescued by a knight._

_Bye._

There was a slightly crackly pause before Dean added, 

_Bitch._

“Jerk,” Sam said, smiling as he deleted the message. It was nearly 10 o’clock in Kansas now—Dean was probably busy with the morning rush. He could call him after the dinner party. 

\-- 

It took far too much time for Sam to admit to himself that whatever he was going to be able to pull together, it wouldn’t be anywhere near fancy enough to meet royal standards. They were just going to have to accept his (perfectly reasonable for an American private tutor or junior reporter) business attire. 

Maybe he could lean in on the “American” bit. At least Naomi seemed to have lowered expectations based on that alone. Perhaps all the other Aldovians would be the same. 

Sam was out of his room and waiting in the hallway before 6 o’clock. 

 When he heard the prince's door open down the hall he looked up to see Castiel walking briskly out of his room, still fiddling with the cuffs on his crisp, white shirt. _He_ had dressed for the occasion, Sam thought miserably, noting the prince’s elegant black suit.

“I hope you weren't waiting long,” Castiel said as he approached, disregarding his guard entirely as the man scurried to close the door and catch up.  

He was wearing a blue tie that brought out his eyes. Sam would have to tell Crowley about that later. The tie itself was slightly askew, as if he had tied it in a hurry.  

“Your tie's a little—” Sam gestured, wiggling his fingers at his own throat. 

“What? Oh. Thank you.” Castiel briskly fixed the knot, grimacing as he did so. “I haven't had to dress up like this for a long time. I forgot how much I hate ties.” 

“Me too,” Sam said. He hadn’t bothered with one tonight, finally deciding that a tie wouldn’t make enough of a difference to justify suffering the whole night. 

“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” the prince said, ducking his head and fixing a button at his wrist. “You look fine.” 

“Your Highness,” the guard said, as he caught up to them. For a brief instant the prince looked looked murderous, then shook it off. 

“Right, shall we?” Castiel asked, and gestured at Sam strangely, bending his arm out toward him. 

“Uh—” Sam hesitated, looking at the crook of the prince's arm. Was this more royal protocol? Was he really supposed to let the prince _escort_ him?  

Castiel, too, looked confused for a split second. Then his eyes widened and he hastily dropped his arm. 

“Sorry,” he said, “Reflex, I guess. This place brings back all sorts of old habits.”  

“That's okay,” Sam said as they started off down the hall, _not_ arm-in-arm. “It probably would have been sort of awkward anyway, 'cause I'm so tall.”   

Castiel huffed a laugh. “Probably,” he agreed. 

\--

The west wing lounge was a large room that had been decorated as if it was a cozy living room. Plush rugs covered the floor, with perfectly plump sofas and chairs scattered around several centerpieces: a few low coffee tables, and one large fireplace that was being stoked by another tuxedoed waiter, just like the previous night.  

The focal point of the lounge was a massive Christmas tree, probably second only to the one on the second floor landing. It bristled with color-coordinated ornaments and lights that twinkled cheerfully.  

As they approached the entrance, the guard bustled around them to enter first.

 “His Royal Highness Prince Castiel...and Mr. Kevin Tran,” he announced. 

Sam leaned down a bit to whisper, “He really, uh...loves his job, doesn't he?” 

He expected the prince to chuckle again, but instead he muttered, “You could say that.” 

They weren't the first people there—Sam could already see the queen and Gabriella, this time in a green velvet headband and some sort of gold chiffon dress. They were talking to a woman Sam hadn't seen before, who wore a muted pantsuit. She had fiery red hair that shone in the light of the Christmas tree.  

All three of them looked up at the guard's announcement and the red-haired woman broke into a wide grin.  

“Anna?” Castiel said in disbelief. He picked up his pace, crossing the length of the room quickly. 

Sam followed more sedately, trying to remember if he had heard of an 'Anna’ during his research.  

“Castiel, it's so good to see you,” Anna said, and grabbed the prince in a sudden tight hug. Just as quickly, she released him and clasped his hands. “Really. It's been far too long.” 

“Same to you,” Castiel said, and Sam couldn't see his face but he sounded almost _relieved_. 

Anna focused on Sam over the prince's shoulder.  

“Hello,” she said, in a tone of polite inquiry.  

“Anna,” Castiel said, dropping her hands and stepping aside, “this is Mr. K—uh, Sam Tran. He's Gabriella's new tutor, from the United States. Sam, this is my cousin, Anna Milton.”

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Tran,” she said, and extended her hand for a warm handshake.  

“Please, just Sam is fine,” he said. 

“Sam, then,” She released his hand. “I hope you're enjoying Aldovia.” She gave him a quick, yet sincere smile, and turned to clasp Castiel's elbow. 

“If you'll excuse us,” she said, smiling at the queen, Gabriella, and Sam in turn, “I won't bore you all with everything Cassie and I have to catch up on!” 

The queen merely smiled graciously and waved a hand, and as Anna steered Castiel away Sam heard him say, “ _Please_ don't call me that.”  

“Well, Mr. Tran,” the queen said, and it took a second for Sam to turn to her. “Gabriella tells me you had a most productive day today.” 

“Yes, it was a good first day,” she chimed in, wheeling forward. “I have a feeling Mr. Tran and I will become good friends.” 

That was certainly one way to describe it.  

“I think we're getting along just fine, aren't we, Your Highness,” Sam said, glancing at her.  

She smiled wide, showing off her pearly white teeth.“That's right,” she said.  

“His Excellency, the Prime Minister,” another guard announced from the door, immediately stealing the queen’s attention. 

“If you'll excuse me. Mr. Tran, I hope you have a wonderful evening,” she said, before gliding off into the crowd. 

Sam and Gabriella stared at each other. Her stare went calculating for a brief second before smoothing out.  

“Come on, Sam,” she said, turning around. “You can sit with _me_.”  

Naturally, she headed straight for the platter of sweets artfully arranged on one of the coffee tables.  

While she was busily ruining her dinner, scarfing down as much candy as she could, Sam looked out over the gathering. A steady stream of royals arrived, most preceded by an announcement—although there were fewer guests than the night before. 

At 6:30 sharp, the queen migrated to stand in front of the Christmas tree and tapped a golden knife against the edge of her champagne flute. The crowd quieted. 

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” she said, her voice carrying sweetly through the room. “It's so wonderful to see so many of our beloved friends and family here for Christmas. I know Richard would have been so happy.” She paused for a second, lips twisted in a wistful smile; at Sam's side, Gabriella quietly put back the last piece of candy she had grabbed.  

“I also know that he wouldn't have wanted us to be sad, this Christmas time; he would have wanted us to celebrate his son being home,” she said, and used her glass to gesture toward the far wall, where Castiel stood with Anna, “and he would have wanted us all to enjoy this time together. So please, let us eat, drink, and be merry!” She raised her glass. The lights sparkled off the fizzing champagne. “In the memory of King Richard—to family and friends.” 

“To family and friends,”the gathered crowd echoed, before drinking to her toast. 

“And to new friends too,” Gabriella said, and when Sam turned she was looking at him with that same calculating gaze. She took a sip of her sparkling cider. Sam weakly raised his glass to acknowledge her toast before taking a swig. 

Gabriella _definitely_ knew something she wasn't sharing. Her pointed looks were beginning to make a pit of dread settle in his stomach.  

He'd better find something for Lucifer, and fast. 

“Mind if I join you?”  

Speak of the devil. 

Castiel, holding a half-empty champagne flute, was standing by the table.  

“Please,” Sam said, and gestured at the empty chairs around them. “At least this time there's somewhere for you to sit.” 

The prince sank into one the chairs and stuck a finger in his tie to loosen the knot.  

“Had a good time talking to Anna?” Gabriella asked, casually inspecting the candy dish.  

“A lot happened while I was gone, didn't it,” Castiel said.  

“Yep,” Gabriella muttered, and selected a red-wrapped candy. She darted a sly look at her brother, which was the only warning he got before she lobbed the candy at him.  

It hit him in the cheek and dropped into his lap. The prince's expression was so dumbfounded that Gabriella started giggling, and, helpless to respond, Sam did too.  

Castiel, holding his glass carefully to the side, picked up the candy and tossed it back into the bowl. He hid a small smile of his own. 

Suddenly the queen appeared over his shoulder. She gave them all a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, and placed a hand on the prince's shoulder.

 “Castiel, good—I was looking for you. Can you come with me?”  

Her smile remained fixed in place. Castiel looked askance at Sam and Gabriella, and then back at the queen. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked doubtfully. 

“No, no, it's just—come with me, please,” she said, a thread of forcefulness entering her tone.  

Casting another confused glance at Sam and Gabriella, Castiel stood slowly, still holding his champagne flute. 

Someone cleared their throat from across the room. The queen whipped around. Sam glanced between her and Castiel at the entrance to the lounge, now occupied by another guard.  

In a twisted echo from the evening before, he was clearly there to announce another late arrival.  

“Announcing the Duchess Megan Masters,” he said, enunciating crisply.  

That name sounded somewhat familiar to Sam. His gaze drifted to the side as he tried to remember where he'd heard the name before—and landed on the prince, whose face had drained of color. 

He looked like he had seen a ghost, Sam thought.  

All eyes were on the door, but Sam watched the prince carefully wipe all surprise from his expression, hiding it away until he was just a slightly pale stone wall. The queen reached out a hand, hesitant, but drew back before she actually touched him.  

It meant he missed seeing the Duchess enter the room, but there was no missing the change in the atmosphere of the party. 

In another eerie repetition from the previous night, the sound that had been sucked out of the room at the Duchess's entrance gradually filtered back in as low, excited voices and furious whispers filled the room. 

Sam looked over. 

The duchess was a lovely woman, with dark brown hair tumbling over her pale shoulders. Her dark evening gown clung to her curves and swirled around her feet. Some sort of probably endangered and very expensive animal had contributed its fur to the long stole wrapped around her arms. With an elegant hand she accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter. 

Suddenly it came to him—the newspaper headlines. “DUCHESS MEG'S OSCARS DATE”.  

And an image result from Google, of Castiel arm-in-arm with a beautiful dark-haired woman, arm crooked the same way he had offered it to Sam tonight. 

He looked from the prince, who still hadn't moved, to Gabriella. 

If a look could disembowel someone, then the duchess would be dead on the floor, judging by the absolute hatred Gabriella projected. 

Like watching a car crash in slow motion, Sam watched as the duchess looked in their direction, smiled easily, and began making her way across the room. 

More than her looks, what was striking was her air of confidence. She moved throughout the crowd like it was her party, talking and laughing with people as if she was the queen. 

The actual queen went to Gabriella and whispered something very pointed into her ear. Gabriella, with one last heated glare in the duchess's direction, looked down at her lap and plucked at the folds of her skirt. 

The duchess sauntered over to their cozy corner and drew to a halt. 

Was it Sam's imagination, or did the whispering from the crowd around them increase? 

“Sorry I'm late. The traffic was dreadful.” 

Duchess Meg smirked, the expression calling attention to her dark plum lips while she adjusted her fur stole so it draped more artfully around her shoulders.  

“Thank you for coming,” the queen said, perfectly cordial. 

 Sam glanced at Castiel.

He looked increasingly sick, as if some horrible realization was dawning on him. He hadn't moved a muscle, except to tighten his fingers around his glass.  

“Yes, Meg,” he said tightly. “What a surprise. I didn't know you were coming tonight.” 

The duchess turned smoothly to Castiel, smile still in place. Her gaze passed over Sam  

“Well, your mother was gracious enough to extend an invitation. And it's been so long, how could I refuse?” 

If Sam hadn't been focusing all of his attention on observing the conversation he might have missed the way that Duchess Meg, flawless and poised, hesitated for the briefest of moments before continuing.  

“It's good to see you, Castiel,” she added.  

Likewise, Castiel's breath hitched very slightly. 

“You as well,” he said, and the smile he gave in return didn't touch the laugh lines at his eyes.

There was a strained pause. Sam was glad he was witnessing…whatever this was, but he also wished he were anywhere but caught in the middle.  

“Well!” the duchess said brightly. “I hope I'll get to talk to you all more at dinner. Perhaps we'll be seated next to each other, Castiel—we have so much to catch up on.”  

She smiled, brushing a hand down his arm. Castiel was still as a statue. 

 With another flick of fur over her shoulder, Duchess Meg turned and sauntered off.

“ _Why_ is she _here,_ ” Gabriella hissed, sounding choked up.  

“Gabby, please, not now,” the queen said. 

Castiel said nothing. 

\-- 

He stayed that way throughout the dinner, giving the briefest answers possible and only to questions he had no choice but to answer. 

Duchess Meg did not end up next to the prince—she was at a different table entirely, with multiple royals Sam couldn't identify. 

Anna, from her spot at yet another table, periodically turned around to give Castiel concerned looks. 

Sam arrived back at his room mentally exhausted. He had bid the prince an awkward “good night” as they passed each other in the hall, and the prince had responded in a distant, nearly robotic voice that sounded alarmingly like Naomi. 

Sam collapsed on his bed and groaned into his hands.  

He should call Lucifer. He _needed_ to call Lucifer. 

He pulled out his phone and dialed Dean instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY rae!!! I LOVE YOU. I hope you like it :')
> 
> To everyone else, thank you so much for reading and I hope the fact that this chapter is long makes up for the fact that I only update once every -mumblemumble months- :'))) 
> 
> As usual, many thanks to my wonderful and amazing beta reader J. Not only does she save you all from many horrible mistakes but she ALSO leaves me hilarious comments. 
> 
> Also, I SWEAR TO YOU ALL that Sam is not a Republican in the U.S. political party sense! I mean in the sense of a republic as a form of government. That is all. 
> 
> also the sequel to A Christmas Prince is coming out at the end of November. GUESS WHO'S WATCHING
> 
> \--  
> Some Notes:  
> 1\. The lines "Yes, the cocktail party tonight, for esteemed members of the nobility. And you, apparently,” ; “Male bloodline. It’s totally unfair.” ; and "And to new friends too." are from A Christmas Prince. No copyright infringement intended blah blah blah whatever you usually have to disclaim
> 
> 2\. Holodets IS A REAL DISH and IT WAS IN THE MOVIE. What is weird about it is that holodets is a decidedly Russian dish and Aldovia is clearly just a knock-off Ye Olde Englishe Christmas Towne. Also it truly is as awful as I have described it here.


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